Chapter Text
He wakes to sunlight and overturned moss.
The stardust whispers that it is time .
. . .
Wandering is something he has to get used to again. Even if the earth under his feet and the ever-babbling brooks come as naturally as breathing, he finds himself tilting his head to the stardust again asking who should I be?
The stardust has nothing to say, but it pushes him forward.
He enters a city and it looks so odd. The colors are everywhere and they grace the people’s blood like thread laced in embroidered skin.
Back when he was awake, the people were not so. . . much?
Maybe that is the wrong word for it.
When he was awake, the people were blessed with sunkissed skin and auburn hair, and now he sees hair that belongs to ocean waves and rippling skin that shimmers with iridescent opal.
Odd. How long was he asleep?
Bless humans and their fear of forgetting, he finds the date and the century.
Hm. Not so long.
He walks further and as people walk through him, he thinks maybe he would like to be seen.
It returns, the question, who should I be ?
His eyes land on a human plastered onto a billboard.
He carves out her likeness in his face. Porcelain skin and candy red eyes. That part is easy, though it is a little odd having too few eyes. Seeing is much more difficult. He wonders how humans live their little lives with only two.
The ash blond tufts of hair that grace her shoulders are more difficult. The feeling of the strands brushing the back of his neck is ‘ hell ’, so to speak.
He gets rid of the layers beneath the nape of his neck.
Her clothes are uncomfortable. He trades her body and cloth for those of a laughing, adolescent man.
Better.
He walks as one of them now. It’s nice to see that despite the new colors, they really have not changed.
He strays away from the dying and lost souls. That is Lady Death’s domain. He is not Lady Death.
Although.
He asks the stardust where Lady Death is.
Gone , it says. You are the only one left .
Odd.
Grief is an entirely. . . living concept. But what are the living if not reflections of those that made them?
His new chest aches but it is nothing compared to crumbling worlds and stars ripping apart. Somehow, with a human chest and human eyes and a human tongue, he thinks this may feel worse.
No wonder the poor things keep killing themselves.
He stands in front of a florist’s. At least those are the same. Relatively.
The flowers are. . . as unnatural as they’ve been since humans decided they existed for another’s sake.
Their souls are lost, but he must admit, with his human eyes, they do look quite beautiful.
He is approached by a human. Which is odd, because people tend to keep to themselves.
“Excuse me. . .” A graying soul, brown hair and dark eyes. Eerily reminiscent of when he was awake. “Are you. . . Apologies for the intrusive question, but. . . you look exactly like my wife.”
His wife?
Hm, like, what Lady Death is- was- to the Lord of the Living.
The old god tilts his head, shaping his human mouth to make human sounds. “Yes, I look like. . .” He listens for the stardust to answer his silent question. “. . . Bakugou Mitsuki.”
The human man makes an odd expression, widened eyes and slight pull back of his head. “Uh- Yes. My wife. I’m Masaru. Bakugou.”
Why is he continuing this conversation?
“Is your appearance the result of a quirk?”
He’s heard that word thrown around a lot. He’s not quite sure what it means yet. So. “I don’t think so.”
“Kid. . . where are your parents?”
They don’t exist. But. Hm. Humans typically have parents. Next best thing.
“Dead,” He says, content.
Masaru Bakugou’s eyes widen again. “Then- your- uh, whoever takes care of you.”
The stardust? The universe? They are everywhere. “They are somewhere.”
“It’s too late for you to be in this part of the city alone,” Masaru Bakugou says. “Do you live somewhere near here?”
“No.”
Masaru Bakugou lets out a sigh like a person would if they were frustrated. Or exasperated. Or something of the like. “I’ll go with you to the police station. We can wait there for someone to pick you up.”
Pick him up? “Pick me up?” Why? “Why?”
“Because you’re a kid.” Incorrect but maybe he looks like one . “Without anyone making sure you’re safe.”
“That’s not true,” He says, but even then, Masaru Bakugou begins walking and the old god trails after him. “I have someone making sure I’m safe.”
“Who? And where are they?”
“Something,” He says. Then places a light hand on Masaru Bakugou’s back because he is walking too slow. “Or someone,” He corrects, because he’s actually not sure what the stardust is. “And they are somewhere.”
Masaru Bakugou sighs again but does not press further.
. . .
The police station is. . . irritating. They ask pointless questions, most of which he can’t even answer in one sentence or less.
‘What is your name?’
I have many. What name are you thinking of?
‘How old are you?’
I’m not sure.
‘Where are your legal guardians?’
Not here.
Pointless, dumb, boring questions.
It is slightly entertaining, though, when the black-haired man in the hat makes a dramatic display of being exasperated.
The other man in the harsh metal room–interrogation rooms haven’t changed either–looks as if he could use a power nap every two seconds. He wears a long scarf around his neck.
Hat makes a low sound in his throat, hands flat on his face.
Scarf takes a heavy breath.
People keep taking deep breaths. Is the oxygen low in the room? The old god mimics Scarf’s deep breath and finds that, no, there is an adequate amount of oxygen in the room. Perhaps he has asthma.
Hat says, muffled through his palms, “Do you have legal guardians?”
Finally, an easy question. “No.”
Scarf heaves another breath and turns around, exiting the room and giving Hat a harsh pat on the back.
Hat stands up straight, running a hand through his hair and dislodging his hat. “Alright, kid.”
“Alright,” The old god parrots.
“Is there a particular name you’d like us to call you?”
“No.” Because he really doesn’t care. “You can call me what you’d like.”
“Okay. . .” Hat massages his temples.
A headache? “You should drink more water. Most headaches are caused by dehydration. Humans need a lot of water to live.”
“Wh-what?”
“You should drink more water.”
“Okay.” Good, humans are awful at taking care of themselves. They just need reminding sometimes. Which is fine. He’s always liked humans. They’re very fragile but very entertaining.
“When are we done?” He wants to walk around more. See what he’s missed while asleep.
“Well, we need to sort out who’s going to take care of you if you have no legal guardian.”
“But I have someone taking care of me.”
Hat perks up. “Who?”
Tricky, dumb question again. “Something. Or someone.”
How do you explain the concept of the universe and its living, breathing everything to a human?
Hat mutters, “What was I even expecting?”
“For me to say a legal human being that exists,” The old god answers, because the stardust told him.
“Okay, whatever,” Hat says. “We’re going to find your closest living relative and you’re going to live with them, sound good?”
No. How is he supposed to walk around the city like that? “No.”
“Well, you don’t have a choice, because you’re a minor.”
He’s not. But he looks like that. And his human body is a ‘minor.’ Except the head. The head is. . . the woman on the billboard’s. . . and ‘wife.’ She is probably not a minor if she’s married to. . . ‘husband.’ His name was. . . something.
Scarf reenters the room, shutting the door softly behind him and handing Hat a manilla envelope.
Hat flips it open. “Well, it says here in your DNA reports that your closest living relative is Bakugou Mitsuki. Hm. What a coincidence. Bakugou Masaru is the man who brought you in.”
Hm. Probably because he is Bakugou Mitsuki. That name is so long. How do humans remember all these consonants?
“Great, that means you’re off our hands,” Scarf says without intonation.
The old god is ushered out the door and watches as Husband’s face contorts into shock and then a muddled sort of acceptance.
. . .
“What the fuck is that!?”
“He’s- well- it’s complicated, hon.”
“I can damn well see that, sweetheart.”
. . .
Husband and Wife–who tell him to call them ‘Uncle’ and ‘Auntie,’ which is really much easier to remember than. . . all those syllables–they teach him how you are meant to be human.
In return, he does his part. Housework is easy, no different cleaning a shrine than a house.
They also. . . have questions.
“What even is your name, brat?”
“I have many,” He repeats, same as before, muscle memory.
“What should we call you?”
Humans are so redundant. Always asking the same questions. “Whatever you'd like.”
“We’ll give you a name, then.”
He tilts his head back to look her in the eyes. Matching faces, the two of them.
“We’re matching.” He stretches his lips into a grin, pointing at her ruby eyes and his own.
Auntie scoffs and leans over the couch at his shoulder. “Yeah. It’s a little creepy. You couldn’t’ve picked another face to steal, huh, brat?”
He blinks. “I could. It’s not stealing, anyway. You get to keep your face. If you really don’t like it, I can pick another.”
“It’s alright.” Auntie sighs, he reminds himself, the oxygen isn’t low, it is simply an expression of emotion. “Names, then? You got a preference?”
He remembers the others. It would feel cruel to take up their names, even for something as superficial as a temporary name given by a human. So that’s out. He can’t remember many of the names he went by before, and any he does, he is not sure it would be very ‘human’ of him to go by a name old as time and written into murals and scriptures.
“I am partial to Victory,” He says instead of what he was thinking, because she was always kind to him. Victory favored him among the others. Why? He doesn’t know. They were all well-meaning but Victory found her way into his blessings more often.
Auntie hums. “Katsuki, then? Here.” She drags a loose piece of paper across the coffee table by a french tip, writes kanji onto the corner in her sharp, slanted script. “Victory.”
That is not what he meant, but it’s a nice name regardless. Simple. Very human. Common, too, according to the stardust.
He shapes his human lips into a smile again. “Thank you.”
. . .
Being human is just as nice as he remembered. He cleans and cooks and wanders.
Humans haven't changed much. Uncle explains that it's the appearance of quirks that are to blame. He also explains what they are.
‘Freaks of genetics.’
Katsuki nods along but really, he senses the divine thread in them. It’s not just genetics. The gods may not be around any longer, but their influence remains.
The stardust is the original, and it is still there. It weaves and feeds the cloth through the systems built by its children. Katsuki wonders if the stardust feels grief.
No , it says.
Katsuki wonders if the stardust feels love.
It doesn't answer.
. . .
The gods had favorites, of course they did. Lady Death had many, and she took them too soon. The Lord of the Living had few, and he kept them as long as he could.
Deku becomes Katsuki’s favorite.
Auntie knew Deku’s mother from. . . school? He doesn't remember what she said.
Deku is thin, bony. He wobbles when he walks and seems so fragile that just a touch would knock him over.
Katsuki gives him a shove occasionally to ensure that doesn't ring true.
There is something that lives under his skin, though, something burning like coals. Not a fire, just the heat.
When they meet for the first time, he seems surprised to see Katsuki, asking many, many questions. They're not dumb, redundant questions. And maybe that's why Katsuki likes him. Humans tend to think similarly, Katsuki doesn't blame them.
Katsuki reads Deku's name as Deku because he forgot to listen when his mother introduced them. Deku doesn't say anything about it but looks odd whenever Katsuki echoes it.
“If you're going to call me by something that's not my name, then I get to call you something else too!” Deku says, pointing a wobbly finger at Katsuki. “Kacchan!”
“Your name's not Deku?” Katsuki says, he could've sworn it was.
Deku’s jaw unhinges and closes a few times, thrice, before he looks away. “It- it's Izuku.”
“Too many syllables.” Katsuki frowns. He won't be able to remember that.
“. . . Deku is fine.”
. . .
Deku is very fond of questions.
Katsuki knocks over a glass, then un-knocks it over.
Deku's eyes are wide when the water swirls back to still.
“How did you do that!? I thought your quirk was Shapeshifting!?”
Oh. Was that not something humans could do? Auntie and Uncle never really cared when Katsuki got too in his head and shattered a vase or wine glass, just told him to clean it up and watched him do it.
“Oh.” Katsuki re-knocks the glass over. “Sorry. And my quirk is not ‘Shapeshifting.’”
Deku looks confused. “Auntie Mitsuki said it was.”
“She is wrong, I'll correct her later.”
“What is your quirk, then?”
Hm. If he is human, humans have quirks, right? But, he doesn't have a quirk.
“I don't have one. I am. . .” He picks his mind for what Uncle said. “Right. Quirkless.”
Deku's eye twitches.
“Is there something in your eye?”
“. . . No.”
. . .
Katsuki thinks he's doing a superb job at being human. He's never been very good at it before, as people have told him, but this time around seems to be going well.
Deku is his first friend. Uncle and Auntie are like his ‘parents,’ so he refers to them as such when people ask.
He remembers to walk on the ground and mind his manners. He also remembers to not ask the stardust so many things unless he thinks he forgot something someone told him.
Later, he is in Deku’s room, tore a little hole through the universe and climbed out. Apparently he gave Deku a scare. He promises to warn him next time.
Deku is hunched over his desk, writing on paper.
“What are you doing?”
“Studying.”
Oh yes. School. Humans teach their young in institutions. It has always felt too clinical for such a wondrous and difficult process, but Katsuki has no will to change what humans have been doing for centuries.
“Is there a test soon?”
“U.A. entrance exams.”
“‘Yuuei?’”
“It’s a hero school. I want to go.”
Deku loves these people called ‘heroes.’ The profession doesn’t quite suit Katsuki’s definition of ‘hero,’ but words change.
“I’ll go with you,” Katsuki decides. Deku told him not to follow him to school because the last time he appeared there, he apparently caused a commotion. But if he is also enrolled in the same school, Deku can’t tell him he can’t be there.
Deku has that look on his face that he often does when Katsuki says things.
“Are you sure?” He asks.
“Yes,” Katsuki says. He just wants to be with him. That’s what ‘being friends’ is.
. . .
Deku tries for the Hero Course. Katsuki aims to the left, General Studies. He has no desire to be a hero. From what he’s seen, they are corrupt, less than honorable. He has spent too long being a soldier to consider the path again. He would warn Deku against the violence, but the red-hot burn under his skin says he will not take kindly to the advice.
When Deku returns from the exam, he is someone else.
“Deku?” Katsuki pinches Deku’s cheek and pulls it, like maybe it will betray the doppelganger that has stolen his skin.
“W-what are you-!?” Deku squawks, pawing at Katsuki’s fingers.
“Nana?” Katsuki pinches at Deku’s eyelids. His eyes are still green, no different than they were before. “No. . . Yoichi?”
There are nine souls fused into Deku’s body. They hang off him like wisps. Souls are Lady Death’s thing, he doesn’t know if this is normal.
“Deku,” Katsuki says. “There are people in you.”
Deku sputters. “N- no !?”
“Yes.” Katsuki releases Deku, instead pressing his palm to the other’s forehead. “Here. Seven full souls other than Deku. And. Half of one.”
Deku furrows his eyebrows, confused. “Half a soul?”
“Mn,” Katsuki mutters. “Toshinori Yagi. Too many syllables.”
Deku turns pale, the blood rushing down and away.
“Do you need to sit down? You look pale.” Katsuki pulls Deku to the couch.
Deku shakes him off. “I- I need to talk to- I mean- I need to go, sorry, Kacchan.”
He leaves.
. . .
Deku passes his exam.
Katsuki also passes.
He doesn’t claim to know much about, well, anything. Actually- that’s wrong. He knows a lot about a lot of things. He just doesn’t know much about the sort of things they ask on the entrance exam. Katsuki relied on the stardust’s whispers for his answers.
The uniform is uncomfortable. He can’t move around in it like he can in his other clothes. He suffers through it, though. This is what being human is, he supposes.
His first day is. . . not very exciting. It’s disappointing but there’s nothing that can be done.
They go through introductions. Name, middle school, quirk. Katsuki has to remember ‘Bakugou Katsuki.’ Too many syllables. He says he was homeschooled and that he is quirkless.
The last part seems to attract whispers. He doesn’t understand why. If anything, those with quirks are the odd ones.
His teacher is a banana-haired man that is apparently a pro hero. Katsuki files it away to ask Deku later. His classmates are nothing special. They ask dumb, redundant questions and lack the heat under their skin that Deku has.
Except one.
A half-asleep boy with bags under his eyes and lilac hair. Incense burns under his fingernails and tongue. He asks no questions.
Katsuki files him away for later.
The opening ceremony is boring. Eyebags bumps him. Katsuki says sorry to be polite. It’s always good to start building relationships.
Later, it is lunch hour.
Katsuki doesn’t need to eat. He enjoys it, regardless. Why else do people give food to gods?
He steps through the universe and steps out to sit crisscross on Deku’s desk.
Deku looks unsurprised.
“Hi, Deku!” He smiles.
“Midoriya. . .” Someone drawls behind him.
Katsuki cracks his neck back to see. . . Scarf?
He bares his teeth. “Hello!”
“Midoriya. . . do you know this person?” Scarf ignores Katsuki's greeting.
Deku sighs. “Yeah.” He turns to Katsuki, looks him in the eyes. “Kacchan, you can't use your quirk like this.”
“But it's not my quirk.” Katsuki says. “What do you want for lunch?”
“Excuse me,” Scarf interrupts, rather rudely, Katsuki thinks.
“Sorry, I will use the door next time.”
Katsuki drops through the universe, pulling Deku with him.
Deku stumbles when he meets the roof. “Kacchan. . .”
“What?” Katsuki coaxes the snarling wind into a slighter breeze. “Do you want katsudon again?”
“No, I-” Deku turns to face him, the air brushing through his curls. “We need to talk about- about all of- all of- of- of. . .” He wrinkles his nose. “This.”
“All of what?”
“You! Your quirks- quirk, I don't know,” Deku waves his hand, gesturing to Katsuki.
Katsuki is tired of repeating himself. People really don't know how to listen. “I told you. I don't have a quirk.”
“Then what's all this? The- the magic? The shape shifting and the- the fixing things and portals and- and everything.”
Frustrating. Perhaps Katsuki is not as good at being human as he thought. He's only made a few mistakes! Most of the time he looks human and does very human things.
“Hm,” Katsuki traps the nail of his thumb between his teeth. “Well. I am. Not.” He searches for the words. Talking is so difficult with limited ways to communicate. “Human. Like you.”
“What are you, then?” Deku's face is hard to read, blank.
“I'm not sure.” Which is true. “I have been called. God. Or. Spirit. Kami . I have shrines. Somewhere. I have forgotten where they are. And they have likely fallen into disarray without care.”
Deku buries his face in his hands. “Of course you are. Of course you do.”
“Yes, that is what I said.”
“Hey, you know,” Deku says, pulling the cuffs of his sleeves. “While we're, uh, coming clean, I’d just- I want to- damn it, this is hard. . .”
“Take your time,” Katsuki chirps, echoing what Uncle likes to say when Katsuki is grasping at his memories of yesterday or an hour before, gone like sand through his fingers.
“I. . .” Deku looks troubled, like whatever it is he's not saying is eating him up inside, like maggots or butterflies. Green butterflies. Emerald like rippling fields and rainforests and Deku. “I'm not quirkless anymore.”
Katsuki nods, letting his mouth fall open. “Ah. I wasn't aware you weren't before.”
“I- you- okay.” Deku folds his knees under him and sits. “I received my quirk from someone.”
Katsuki drops to sit across him, letting their knees touch. “Yes, from. Too many syllables.”
“You knew?”
“Yes. All those people in you. Nana and En and half of. . . the man with the syllables.” Katsuki rolls his knuckles on Deku’s uniform knee, pulling a loose string. “What do you want for lunch?”
“Whatever is fine,” Deku lies.
Katsuki makes a noncommittal sound and sculpts a steaming soft barbecue pork bun out of the air, holding it light in front of Deku’s nose with his fingertips.
“You don’t need to lie,” Katsuki says as Deku takes the bun from him. “I will know anyway, and there is no need to be kind to me.”
Deku tears off a chunk with his front teeth. “Yeah, I know, force of habit.”
Katsuki picks the dough off of his fingernails. “Not everyone is worth your kindness.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t give it anyway.”