A/N:
there are a billion fanfics where Kakashi is transmigrated into BNHA, and since I love him to pieces, I've decided to hop on that bandwagon
actually, this has been a lingering idea for like 2 years now, but I haven't bothered writing more than small bits before, so... this is actually *not* based on any other kakashi reincarnation fics, but it probably will draw some inspiration from ones i have since read (especially 'Road to Nowhere' and 'Somewhere Far From Victory')
i'm going to admit rn that i only have this chapter and a rough idea of the next one written, so don't be surprised if it's not updated as regularly as i'd like. i'm kinda just posting it and hoping it motivates me to write more ;,D
as of right now, that's about all i have to say... so, hope you enjoy :P
Inko Midoriya's hold is gentle, warm, and kind . When Izuku leans into her touch, his worries should melt away. It feels more like there are fire ants marching beneath his skin.
Her apologetic words wind around his throat until he can no longer breathe. She presses gentle kisses into his hair, and the noose tightens.
Izuku peers at his reflection and sees a little, green-eyed boy staring back at him. Sees the smattering of freckles that spread across his baby fat-lined cheeks; sees the soft, green curls that sprout from his head; sees the way his too-tan skin stretches across his too-small bones. And he sees his skin flake away, piece by piece, until there is nothing but muscle and bone. When he blinks with too-dry eyes, the imagery disappears.
Eventually, his mother leaves. He eyes the ceiling until his eyes begin to burn, as if the world will crash around him should he tear his gaze away.
But he can only hold out for so long.
Izuku's eyelids flutter closed, and he dreams.
He dreams of sunlight filtering through towering trees, and of the scent of gentle rainfall sinking into the earth. Of faceless laughter, and of a blend of colors ( yellow, black, pink, silver— ) that makes his heart swell. Of wandering through the streets, finger brushing against the worn spine of an old book, and of eyes rolled in fond exasperation.
He dreams of crimson paint drip, drip, dripping through creaking wood, and of the scent of rusted iron. Of expressions twisted in grief, and of melded hues ( black, silver, brown, yellow— ) that make his chest ache. Of an old stone bathed in the light of the moon, and of lips pressed into horribly grim lines.
The world cracks beneath his feet. His limbs lock in place, unwilling to budge even as he plunges down, down, down , and a neverending void swallows him whole.
Izuku peels his blanket off of sweat-soaked legs and launches himself out of bed, hand pressed against his trembling lips as he scrambles to the bathroom. He barely makes it to the toilet before he's retching, gripping the porcelain hard enough to turn his knuckles white.
Vomit spills from his lips and a thick film of bitterness coats his tongue. Hours seem to pass before all that escapes are throat-cracking dry heaves. He bites down on his lip until he tastes copper, and his trembling becomes less violent.
His thoughts come back sluggishly, forced to wade through the sap that floods his mind. He remembers—
( —the scent of rust, and the feeling of numbness that spreads through his veins. His legs crumple from beneath him, unable to support his weight, and his fingers curl weakly into the dirt.
Nearby, someone's breath hitches. He sees gold and orange hues intertwined, blending with cool violet. Soft pinks and fierce reds stand out beside a deep, forest green that reminds him of the spring. A warm, crimson glow flickers behind the rest.
His eyelids slip closed, and— )
Kakashi takes in a ragged breath, presses his hand against his burning eye, and digs his teeth into his bile-covered tongue before he can choke out a scream.
He is not Izuku. He is not Kakashi. He is something in between.
Not that the realization makes his life any easier.
His mother is worried by his sudden desire to wear facemasks, and his sudden change of hair color - from green to silver, which briefly makes his mother look as if she's seen a ghost - has even doctors stumped. When he returns to school, his classmates seem to think that the above are only proof of his apparent freakishness - a shared thought initially brought on by his lack of a quirk. For the curious, the words that slip off his tongue lead them in circles, leaving them satisfied even when they leave with net zero information.
But most agonizing of all is the way everyone treats him like he's made of glass. As if he so much as trips and falls, he'll shatter and the pieces will never quite fit together again.
(The assumption isn't entirely wrong, he knows, but not in the way they think.
He is irreparable. He is a dog of war, and a period of peace, no matter how long, will not change that. But that, at least, is something he's learned to live with.)
All of it makes him feel as if he's suffocating.
When he breathes, dust clogs his lungs. Copper slides across his tongue, and bile down his throat. There is a pulsing ache in his joints, unwavering in its phantasmic intensity. His heart is one beat away from giving out. He does not have a moment reprieve, neither here nor there.
(There is no ongoing war to incite such illusions. To him - to Kakashi - that is not a comfort.)
But time does not stop for him, and it never will.
He's forced to keep marching on. To study, grasping for the information that lies at his fingertips. He buries himself in books and spends hours at a time with eyes glued to the computer screen, soaking up any and all information he can get his hands on.
For him, the rules of this world are uncharted territory - steep in their learning curve.
Children aren't expected to teethe on kunai or stare down opponents that tower over them, clumsy fingers wrapping around weapons that are bigger than their entire hands. Travel is ever-present, even with restrictions, and at any one time, he can talk to another person from what seems like worlds away. There is an extended time of peace that has lasted - and is expected to continue lasting - for decades. There are wars and villains, but countries do not constantly teeter between a wary ceasefire and an all-out war. Shinobi are things of fairy tales, and heroes are what dominate the public consciousness.
(Most notably, though, there is an obvious divide between good and evil, rather than a thin, blurred line that is far too easy to pass between.)
It's discomfiting, to say the least. It knocks him off balance, because even if he's spent over five years here and half of his Before memories are buried in a hazy, jumbled mess, he spent over five times that amount of time fighting tooth and nail just to survive elsewhere.
And he—
He compartmentalizes. He knows that it's the only thing that'll keep him even remotely sane.
It's not a good way to live, but it's the only way he knows how.
A/N:
there are highs and lows to this chapter, but i am so proud of those last two lines, you can't even imagine
also, i know this chapter is pretty short, but that's because it's the prologue - things will be explored more in depth later on, and chapters will get increasingly longer in the future
(btw, if you couldn't tell, this narrative happens during and immediately following Izuku/Kakashi's [Izukashi, Kazuku, Hatoriya, whatever you wanna call him], diagnosis as quirkless... which is both hilarious and depressing if you think about him having this existential crisis at the ripe old age of five)
anyway
Thanks for reading!
