Title: Black Red

Fandom: [K], Project K

Characters/Pairings: Fushimi/Yata, appearance by Munakata and Mikoto.

Disclaimer: [K] does not belong to me, nor do I make any profit out of this work.

Warnings: unbeta-ed, grammar errors ahoy. Major character death. Timeline? What Timeline type of fic, and I have no info on the Greens so I completely made that one up, yeah. Also, this was written before episode four, so OOC-ness abound.

A/N: Feels, I has them. Especially when I'm distressed by my thesis and intern report, so fuck this, I'm writing a tragedy. Don't ask me about the ending either, I HAVE NO IDEA MYSELF *goes to plant mushrooms on the corner, Tamaki-style*

A [K] Project Fanfiction

Black Red

When Saruhiko woke up, sprawled on his stomach on the ground, everything was painted in red.

It wasn't like he hated red. He didn't absolutely love the color the way Misaki did, of course, but he didn't hate it. Just like he had no special attachment to the color blue even if it was the color of SCEPTER 4. He wasn't the loyal type; just a person who loved seeking thrill and challenge.

He shifted onto his side, head pounding as he tried to remember what had happened. Someone was moving behind him, and he recognized Awashima's firm and stoic voice issuing orders in short words. People were bustling around, and when his gaze finally focused, the first thing he saw were boots stomping back and forth. The sharp smell of acid and iron hit his nose, and Saruhiko wrinkled his nose.

A pair of boots paused before him. When the owner crouched, Munakata's face entered his line of vision. His expression was unreadable, and for some reason, it annoyed Saruhiko. He clicked his tongue, and raised a hand to swat at Munakata—

—except there was no hand.

Everything came back like a rush of ocean wave, so fast and huge it made Saruhiko dizzy. There was a mission, he remembered, level code Zaffre Blue. He'd joined the others in battle this time, chasing out the leader of the Green Clan. There was a trap—that was it, he'd fallen right into a trap made by the Green Clan, and his unit was surrounded. He'd underestimated the mission, too, only bringing five members of his unit out, and there were ten of the Greens surrounding them. It should have been fine, except the Greens knew this area better than he and his unit did and—

And what? What happened? How did he lose his hand?

He'd lost his unit, that was for sure. There was too much red on his surroundings to even consider someone other than him survived. He was even lying in a pool of blood—dark red, so dark it was almost black, and he was pretty sure half of it must have come from his chopped hand. How did he survive, anyway? He let out a shaky laughter, thumping his forehead back onto the ground, welcoming the sharp smell of iron assaulting his nostrils. He was going into hysteric, wasn't he. In front of Munakata and Awashima. Nothing was worse than this.

"Fushimi-kun," Munakata said, and was that a careful tone in his voice? How laughable. "We have to clean up."

He'd just led his unit to death, and now he had to clean their corpses up. With one hand.

He shifted again, and suddenly realized the dead weight on his legs.

Even before he forced his body to flip onto his back, dread was already spreading in his chest, clawing its way up to his throat. His instinct screamed at him, telling him that he didn't want to turn his body, that he didn't want to see, that he somehow knew whoever it was weighing his down was dead, and he didn't want to see it, he didn't—

He turn over anyway, slowly, and saw first the familiar orange sweater, now coated with red, slick and regal and sick.

Blue and green clashed, and the air smelled of sharp tang as Saruhiko's sword grazed his enemy's side. A painful grunt, but he didn't have time to see if his opponent was down, because another one was already charging, the green aura blazing forward, and he ducked, only to find out that his previous opponent had held his hand immovable. He struggled free, but it was too late, and the aura would lance right through him—killing him if he was lucky, but Saruhiko suspected he wouldn't be.

Then a blazing red, the sound of a skateboard, and flames clashed with the green aura, and vanished completely.

Saruhiko caught a glimpse of flapping orange sweater, and couldn't help the grin tugging on his lips. HOMRA was here, no doubt also chasing the Green King. There were angry shouts—a voice he'd recognize wherever he was, and Saruhiko, not wanting to be outdone, knocked the hilt of his sword down on the one holding him and watched him collapsed.

"We'll leave here to you, Yata-chan!"

"Ossu!"

Then Misaki was standing behind him—back-to-back just like they used to fight when Saruhiko was still in HOMRA. Saruhiko barks out a sarcastic laugh—Misaki's back was warm, as always. He'd missed this—this was the only thing he'd sorely missed since he'd defected from HOMRA. Misaki's small, strong back, warm and rigid like a pillar even though he was a full head shorter than Saruhiko.

"Didn't think I'd be saved by you, Misaki."

"Don't call me that. Don't be so familiar with me, either." Misaki snorted. "This is Mikoto-san's order."

"Ah." He grinned, the familiar excitement whenever Misaki was in the battle—whether it was against him or with him—tickling his whole being. It was always fun, with Misaki around. So easy to rile up, easy to read, easy to work with, but a challenge nonetheless. "Well, I suppose, if you don't mind working with a Traitor."

Then it was a blur of green, blue and red, and Saruhiko threw himself into the battle, letting his instinct take over his movement. The battle was fast-paced, intense, and powerful, but Misaki's presence on his side was solid, and Saruhiko found himself in awe as Misaki bashed a Green on the head with his skateboard. It wasn't enough to knock their opponent down, but Saruhiko was moving, running his sword through their opponent's stomach in one swift move.

There was silence, for a brief two seconds, and their opponent hacked out a laugh.

"Checkmate."

Something was ticking. Saruhiko could hear, because he was this close to their opponent, and it came from the inside of the man he'd just stabbed.

His breath was caught in his throat, his hand refusing to let go of the sword he was still holding, and when the explosion came, something hit him hard, throwing him backwards and down onto his back, and the last thing he hear was his name being shouted on the wind.

"Saruhiko!"

Then nothing. Nothing mattered; the world had zeroed in to the limp figure sprawled on his legs, face pale with unseeing eyes, and a disturbing view of burnt flesh and skin, all the way from his chest down to his feet. His remaining hand reached out, trembling, and landed on a bloodied cheek.

It was cold.

"Misaki."

He didn't even recognize his voice. It was weak, and he'd never heard himself sounding so weak. He shuffled forward, slipping his legs from under Misaki's limp body, before letting his one arm gathered him close. Closer, into a not-quite-embrace. Into his arm, where Misaki's head lolled back, baring his blistered throat.

"Misaki." He waited, because Misaki always bounced back, always shouted back, always yelled back at him not to call him so intimately. But there was no respond, and Saruhiko felt his stomach sank with a final realization.

He was gone.

Misaki.

And it was just so wrong, to see him limp and unmoving like this, because Misaki was the very essence of life. Wild and uncontrollable and honest and free. He never stopped moving, always so loud and boisterous, and Saruhiko had loved him, loved every single part of him that brought everything to life. It wasn't fun without Misaki, he'd always thought, and that was because without Misaki, he just didn't feel alive.

And that Misaki—his Misaki—was gone.

He ducked his head, burying himself into Misaki's hair—clotted with blood, the color red so dark it was almost black—and breathed in. The scent of flames mixed in with the smell of iron and tang, but underneath it, Saruhiko thought he could feel Misaki's scent. Of freedom and life.

"Misaki." He said, and was surprised when it came out as a sob. What was left of the HOMRA mark on his shoulder throbbed—the mark that was on the same place as Misaki's mark—and it served as a painful reminder of what he'd lost. Saruhiko, Misaki had shouted. For the last time, he'd called Saruhiko by his name.

There were so many things left unsaid. Too many things Saruhiko hadn't explained. Why he'd left HOMRA, why he'd joined SCEPTER 4. Why he'd loved Misaki so much it hurt sometimes. How Misaki made him feel alive, and it was a pleasure just to be with him, or even against him. There were too many things Saruhiko hadn't told Misaki, but he couldn't now. Not ever.

His whole body shuddered as the weight of grief finally settled down on him, and Saruhiko gritted out Misaki's name again, raw and painful. His tears were hot on his cheeks, and it made his head throbbed and his vision hazy, but it didn't matter because he didn't need anything or anyone, not right now. He just needed Misaki to move, to open his eyes, to yell, to shout, to be alive.

"Misaki," he said, and was that the only thing he could say, he wondered. "Misaki, Misaki, Misaki, Misaki—"

He felt the blazing red aura before he looked up to see Suoh Mikoto standing before him, expression unreadable like Munakata's was, and Saruhiko wanted to laugh at how similar the two Kings are. Fuck this. This was ridiculous. What was Saruhiko seeking anyway, what did he want power for?

Suoh Mikoto crouched before him, hands reaching forward in an obvious attempt to take Misaki away, and Saruhiko flinched back, bringing Misaki with him. Suoh Mikoto paused, eyes hardening as they searched Saruhiko's own. Munakata was standing behind him, watching silently, seemingly undisturbed by the presence of the Red King.

For a moment, Suoh Mikoto was just there. He didn't move, didn't speak, and just like that, Saruhiko realized that the Red King was grieving.

His hold on Misaki's body tightened, the realization bringing a whole new wave of grief, and Saruhiko let his head hung over Misaki's, watching his tears dotting the pale, bloodied face. His whole body shook, denial warred with inexplicable rage and anguish. The Red and Blue King were watching him, and he couldn't give a damn.

Except when Suoh Mikoto murmured, "He asked me to let him stand by you."

It torn him from the inside, and Saruhiko howled into Misaki's neck, coming undone like he'd never done before, crying so hard that he couldn't breathe, like he'd reverted into a mere two-year-old kid who scraped his knee on the pavement. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt.

"I love you," he said, and Misaki was warm and safe inside his arms, and he couldn't think of anything else. They survived, and it was enough. Even if Misaki would scowl, and yell at him and tell him to stop saying ridiculous things, and Saruhiko would laugh at him, would tease and rile him up until there was the wonderful shade of red spreading on Misaki's cheeks, a mix of anger and embarrassment.

But when Misaki's arms wound around his back, patting him awkwardly, and tightened their embrace, that was okay, too.

"Yeah. Fucking love you, too, dumbass."

-o0o-