Disclaimer: The author does not own any characters or locations seen in the following fanfiction. This is purely for entertainment purposes.
Warning: Slight angst.
He stared blankly out of the wide open window, shivering slightly in the frigid night breeze yet making no move to shut it. His fingers clenched around a polished and shining monocle and he unconsciously gritted his teeth before letting out a long breath which turned into white fog immediately after coming into contact with the air.
He finally blinked and glanced around, eyes lingering on the massive portrait of his father cum hidden door to Kaitou KID's hideout and couldn't help but wonder.
Who was he?
Was he the dashingly handsome thief, Kaitou KID who stole both jewels and the hearts of women with his honeyed words and charming demeanor. The 'Magician under the Moonlight' who, with a snap of his fingers, could disarm complicated and expensive security systems without blinking an eye. The thief who would taunt and egg on the police officers sent to catch him, all the while nimbly and cleverly dancing out of traps and capture. No. That was not him. Kaitou KID was a ghost. A ghost of a man long gone, brought back to life by a hurting boy who was not yet ready to shoulder such burdens. Kaitou KID was an illusion. He did not exist.
If not the legendary phantom thief, was he the always cheerful class clown? Pranking his dear childhood friend and the half british detective determined to capture and expose him. Was he somebody who gave roses to people when he saw they were feeling sad and who performed magic tricks for the enjoyment of others. Was he the mischievous pseudo brother of a certain mop wielding detective's daughter, always getting into her hair yet left an empty void when he was not around? No... That was not it either. He made people laugh because he knew what sadness felt like. True sadness and he did not wish that upon people. He wore a cleverly made mask of wide grins and sparkling eyes, all the while pretending to be perfectly fine. He was not the beloved class clown either.
Was he the sweet child of his widowed mother? The innocent and naughty little boy who could do no wrong other than flip up the skirts of girls and pour itching powder down the shirts of unwary passerbys? The one who clung to his mother at his father's funeral and stared up at her with glimmering indigo eyes as his mother wept her eyes out, too young to truly understand the weight of death but old enough to know that daddy wasn't coming home anymore. Was he the strong pillar of support that his mother relied on behind teasings and lighthearted chatter? No. That wasn't who he was. He was weak. He hid behind a mask, he pretended to be strong for his mother. He had to. They would have both crashed and burnt, drowning in the grief of the loss of a father and a husband. He had to smile and assure himself and the world that no, he was not breaking. He had to.
So, if those were not him, merely applied masks that was a result of having to experience so much so young, then, who was he?
As he sat in the cold gleam of the moonlight, he began to cry. Silent tears trickling down his cheeks, and the moon streaked the tear tracks quicksilver. He scrubbed at his eyes and found that he could not stop. He was cracking, the Poker Face he had been so proud of was finally chipping away. He gave up trying to wipe away the tears and clutched his blanket around himself, curling up on his bed and cried for all that he had lost and for the shocking discovery that he had made.
He was Kuroba Kaito and he had forgotten himself.