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Kakashi’s pretty sure he’s supposed to be dead.
He doesn’t quite remember dying, true. The last thing he can recall is going to sleep in his apartment like any other evening after another day of enjoying the freedom of retirement. Maybe he’d died of a heart attack or something similar in his sleep. It would be a rather anticlimactic death, but at the same time it’d be fitting. There wasn’t much out there that could kill him, and he’d been notorious for not taking proper care of his body. It wouldn’t be surprising if it had eventually just given out on him.
However, that doesn’t explain how he ended up here, wherever here actually is. It looks like a classroom. A group of roughly twenty children with bizarre features stare dumbly at him from their desks as a boy with a bird’s head starts yelling right next to Kakashi, arms waving like he’s trying to push Kakashi away, and a woman tries (and fails) to get everyone’s attention from the front of the room.
They don’t seem to pose any immediate threat, so Kakashi dismisses them for a moment as he catalogues his status and surroundings. The most obvious change first: he appears to be missing his body. He can’t feel the temperature of the room or smell a thing. The window is reflective enough to give him a glimpse of himself, and he seems to be made up of some sort of immaterial shadowy matter that mimics a bird. He’s not exactly a fan of that. Kakashi is supposed to have a hound motif, not an avian one.
Second observation: he’s no longer in Konoha. Either he’s ended up in a very distant village with a multitude of kekkei genkai he’s never heard of (unlikely), or he’s somehow ended up in a completely different world.
It seems like a far-fetched conclusion, but there aren’t a lot of alternatives that make sense. Kekkei genkai causing physical mutations are exceedingly rare, yet close to half the children in this room have unnatural features ranging from blue skin to extra limbs to animal traits.
In any case, until he figures out what happened in the first place, he has no idea how to undo whatever it is that got him here, and it becomes obvious almost immediately that even leaving the room isn’t an option. He’s tethered to a four-year-old humanoid bird who doesn’t even have wings. Said bird-child is terrified of Kakashi, which is really just icing on the proverbial cake.
“Get out of my head,” Tokoyami Fumikage sobs, pulling at the feathers on his scalp. His eyes are scrunched shut.
“Gladly,” Kakashi says. He stretches out a shadowy hand and watches the way fingers curl through his palm without the restriction of joints or solid matter to stop them. “I’m about as happy with this arrangement as you are, kid. As soon as I figure this out, I’ll get out of your... feathers... for good.”
Fumikage opens one eye to look suspiciously at Kakashi. “Promise?”
Kakashi crinkles his eyes in a smile. “Promise.”
--
It’s not a promise Kakashi can keep.
Whatever happened to him, his attempts to find a way to reverse it have been unsuccessful. Trying to forcibly separate himself from the child has gone just as poorly. He can move a short distance away, but the further he moves the weaker he can feel himself getting. Even stretching at his limit, there’s a shadowy tendril connecting himself to the boy. It appears he’s going to be stuck here for the foreseeable future.
The one saving grace of this new “body” of his is that it’s quite moldable, and it doesn’t take him too long to figure out how to reshape his form to mimic what he’d looked like as a human. Interestingly, while nothing else of his original body seems to have carried over, he still has the sharingan.
And whatever this link between himself and Fumikage is, it’s not normal. This isn’t a world where everyone has an extra soul latching onto them. Fumikage’s parents, who share the same birdlike features as their son, gape at him when he reluctantly introduces himself and requests (very nicely, he might add) an explanation of the situation. She shows no recognition when hearing his name.
“So you’re... Fumikage’s quirk?” the mother asks. She hasn’t introduced herself, so he has no idea what her name is. “Is Kakashi the name Fumikage gave you?”
He tamps back his annoyance. “It would be very helpful if you explained what a quirk is.”
She blinks. “The definition of a quirk? I mean… they’re special abilities or mutations...?”
That’s not very helpful, but it’s a start. She doesn’t seem terribly inclined to answer any of his questions right now anyway. Fumikage, meanwhile, looks like he’s halfway to dissociating.
“If that’s the definition of a quirk, I don’t believe I qualify as one,” Kakashi says. It’s possible he was summoned or otherwise manifested by whatever this child’s actual “quirk” is, but he’s hardly going to let them think he’s someone they can control at their leisure.
“What else would you be?” she asks. Maybe she takes his silence as anger, because she quickly raises her hands in defense. “I hope you don’t take offense. You have to understand this is... confusing for all of us.”
“I’ll tell you when I’ve figured it out,” he says, and it’s only half a lie. He’ll tell her if he thinks it’ll be beneficial to himself. Otherwise... it’s best they don’t know too much about him. He can only imagine what kind of T&I equivalent he’d land himself in if it became public knowledge that he came from another world.
--
Kakashi has no interest allowing himself to be examined by doctors when Fumikage’s family takes him to someone called a quirk specialist for evaluation, so they’re left trying to explain Kakashi’s existence (and refusal to actually make an appearance) to someone who seems as baffled by the situation as the rest of them.
“You’re saying you have no control over this quirk of yours?” the doctor, who’d introduced himself as Haburashi, asks slowly. “Not even enough to make it manifest for a few seconds? It’s completely out of your hands?”
Fumikage’s shoulders hunch and he looks over at his mother, who gives him an encouraging nod. He hasn’t learned yet how to control his thoughts and emotions to protect them, and Kakashi can feel the nervousness and uncertainty bleeding into every corner of Fumikage’s mind. “No...”
Kakashi doesn’t feel happy about causing a small child distress, but he’d feel even less happy acquiescing to the probing queries he knows he’d be subject to if he showed himself. There’s a dangerous glint in this doctor’s eyes, one that suggests he’d be very interested in a firsthand examination of whatever Kakashi’s become. He’s not going to give them the opportunity.
Fumikage is going to have to deal with them himself.
--
Fumikage’s quirk goes into the database under its self-proclaimed name. “Kakashi” is hardly an accurate description of the quirk, but it seems rather unnecessary to rename it when it’s already gone to the trouble of naming itself.
If Kakashi’d been properly studied, if he’d made an appearance and acquiesced to their probing questions, he and Fumikage may have made waves in the field of quirk research. A quirk with some level of sentience and self-awareness is already rare, but a quirk with such a distinct and separated mind from its source, with memories and knowledge not inherited from the quirk-holder? Unheard of.
But Kakashi never manifests in the specialist’s office. The quirk specialist is left with a vague and inaccurate explanation from the Tokoyamis, and Kakashi’s refusal to appear is chalked up to be a consequence of Fumikage’s inexperience in controlling his quirk.
And that’s that.
--
Kakashi is bored. Beyond bored.
The world outside rarely holds anything of interest. Fumikage spends most of his day in a classroom learning how to read, write and perform basic addition. Kakashi listens in on history lessons to try to get a better understanding of this world, but it’s obviously heavily filtered and simplified for young children. Given the (literal) hero-worship and comparatively black and white portrayals of societal issues he occasionally gets a glimpse of on their televisions, he doesn’t have a lot of hope the propogandist teaching of history will change as Fumikage gets older. It seems some things don’t change even across worlds.
Fumikage got used to Kakashi’s presence pretty quickly and tolerates him, but he only turned five a month ago. Kakashi has no interest in socializing with a civilian five-year-old. Maybe in a few years Fumikage will become more interesting to talk to, but right now he’s still immature and held back by a child’s naturally limited understanding of the world.
And like what seems like every child in this world, he’s infatuated with the world of heroes. He replays videos of hero rescues on loop, writing down notes that he seems to think will be helpful in the future. (They won’t be. He hasn’t learned how to take proper notes yet. But he gets points for the effort.) Sometimes he wistfully comments on their quirks and how neat they would be to have. Kakashi doesn’t take offense. He knows Fumikage isn’t trying to insult him. He wouldn’t want to get saddled with someone like himself as a quirk instead of something like elemental manipulation or flight.
It’s a pity. Career heroism at its core shares some similarities with the type of work done by shinobi, if a bit less ruthless; generally speaking, they seem more concerned with maintaining order in their own society than they are with going to war with each other. But something about it rubs him the wrong way. Perhaps it’s the idolization of heroes. The intense focus on goodness, perfection and maintaining public images that appeal to the masses. They seek fame and attention because that’s the way a hero succeeds in the field.
Not every hero conforms to this image - Endeavor and his abrasive personality comes to mind - but it’s a game Kakashi has no interest in playing. He’s no hero. They’d be appalled if they knew even a fraction of his history. He’d probably get himself and Fumikage locked up for public safety if his past ever came to light. Kakashi is no stranger to faking personas, but it’s exhausting to maintain it for extended periods of time – and the nature of heroes means that act would need to be upheld for years at every public appearance.
He knows Fumikage wants to be a hero. He hasn’t talked to Kakashi about it yet, but it’s just a matter of time.
--
Kakashi is an enigma.
He’s supposed to be Fumikage’s quirk, but he doesn’t act like Fumikage at all. He doesn’t think like Fumikage. He doesn’t care about the things Fumikage cares about and acts like being here is an inconvenience, not the only existence he’s ever known. He has a mind of his own, as Dad says. But he came from Fumikage. He’s his quirk. He’s responsible for Kakashi’s actions, even if they want completely different things.
Kakashi stole a book from the school library yesterday and now Fumikage has detention. Kakashi sulked over it, but not because he got them in trouble. He says he didn’t know security cameras were a thing and that next time he won’t get caught. But that’s not the problem.
Fumikage wants to be a hero someday. He’s dreamed of it his whole life. What kind of hero has a quirk that steals stuff when their host isn’t looking?
They’ve been stuck together for almost four years and he still knows almost nothing about Kakashi. He’s pretty sure Kakashi doesn’t like him. He’d wanted to escape when he first woke up, and even though he doesn’t complain he always refuses to come out during quirk training class. Outside of their family, almost no one has even met Kakashi. His classmates don’t even believe he’s real.
“You know what I think?” Sakamoto says. He picks at his nose and flicks it at Fumikage. “I think you’re lying about your quirk. You probably just have a regular old boring mutant quirk.”
Fumikage’s brow furrows. “I’m not lying.”
“Then show us,” Minami chimes in. “It’s your quirk, right? You should be able to activate it.”
The weight of their stares is like concrete. He can feel some of their other classmates turning to look, all probably curious to see what he’ll do. If he can prove to them his quirk is real.
Just for a minute, Fumikage internally pleads. You don’t even have to do anything, just come out for a few seconds so they can see you’re real and will leave me alone.
Kakashi says nothing. He doesn’t come out.
--
“You’re the worst quirk ever,” Fumikage hisses, hours later from the safety of his bedroom. He pulls his blankets tightly over his head. Darkness makes Kakashi stronger, but he doesn’t like coming out in small spaces. It’s weird to think of a quirk being claustrophobic, but in situations like this it’s useful.
I’m not some sideshow attraction, Kakashi says in Fumikage’s head. They’re elementary schoolers. Your life will get a lot easier once you realize their shortsighted opinions don’t matter.
“You don’t get it,” Fumikage says. “You can just hide whenever you don’t like something. I’m stuck out here. What would you even know?”
He can feel an edge of annoyance in Kakashi’s mood. I’ve encountered plenty of narrow-minded people during my lifetime. The sooner you learn to brush them off the better.
“What lifetime? You’re even younger than I am,” Fumikage mutters. “You only woke up four years ago. You’re literally just my sentient shadow. You don’t understand anything.”
Now that’s simply not true.
He frowns. “What?”
Kakashi’s sigh echoes in his head. I guess there’s no harm in telling you, as long as you keep this to yourself. I used to be human like you. Minus the avian traits, though.
Fumikage can’t help it. He tears the blankets off and sits straight up, heart racing. “You’re lying.”
Would I lie to you?
“Yeah, you would. You lie to me all the time.” He can’t be telling the truth. That... that would mean... no. He doesn’t want to think about that. That somehow his quirk is keeping a real person’s soul trapped.
Kakashi’s shadowy body materializes in front of him, looking the same as it has pretty much from the start. But now that humanoid form feels ominous in a way it wasn’t before. He doesn’t look anything like Fumikage. And... he’d chosen this form, hadn’t he? He’d chosen to look more like a non-mutant person. The earliest memory of him that Fumikage has was different – he’d intentionally changed his appearance. Would a being who’s never known another existence bother with aesthetics like that?
He rubs the back of his neck in a gesture that’s eerily human now that Fumikage’s paying attention. “I wish I was kidding. The adjustment period probably would have been a lot easier if this was the only form I’d ever known.”
Fumikage swallows. “Who... who were you?”
“Hatake Kakashi. Anything else I could tell you about my identity wouldn’t mean anything to you anyway,” Kakashi says. “And I’m around fifty years older than you, just to be clear.”
Fumikage flops back down onto his back. He feels a bit faint. “Are you dead? Did... did my quirk kill you? Or did I summon you from the afterlife?”
Kakashi hums. “It’s hard to say. I think I died in my sleep, but I guess I can’t say for certain. I don’t actually recall dying.”
That makes Fumikage feel even worse than before. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For taking you away from your life. No wonder you hate me.”
Fumikage flinches when Kakashi reaches out towards him. Kakashi pauses for a moment, then ruffles the feathers on his head. “I don’t hate you. I don’t blame you either, if that’s what you’re upset about. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss having my own body, but this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve worked with less-than-ideal circumstances.”
Fumikage sniffs, blinking hard. Kakashi says he’s not mad at him, but that’s all they are - words. Kakashi is not trustworthy. He’s known this since the start. But part of him doesn’t care. Wants to hear him say he means it, even if it’s a lie. “You promise?”
It’s hard to tell with only his eyes having any kind of defined shape, but it feels like Kakashi’s expression takes on a softer edge. “I promise.”
The last time Kakashi made a promise to him, he hadn’t been able to follow through with it. He doesn’t think Kakashi intentionally lied to him or meant to break it, but his continued presence is a reminder that a promise is not a guarantee. Maybe he doesn’t hate Fumikage right now, or blame him. But that could change in the future. He could get tired of living like this. Of Fumikage.
But it’s not like either of them really have a choice in the matter. If Fumikage rejects Kakashi’s promise, it’s not going to change anything. They’ll still be stuck here together.
“Okay,” he says, and tries to let himself accept it. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. His brow furrows in thought as he tries to distract himself. “What did you look like when you were human?”
Kakashi’s mismatched eyes close in a smile. “Learn how to meditate and maybe you’ll get to find out.”
--
Meditating is boring. It’s hard to keep his mind on it long enough to get anywhere at all.
Kakashi says if Fumikage does it right, he should be able to access a special place in his subconscious where Kakashi lives. It sounds unlikely, but sue him, he’s curious. If there’s a chance he could actually meet Kakashi face to face - the real Kakashi, not the shadowy replica he’s always seen - he has to at least try.
It’s just as possible Kakashi’s trolling him. Again.
--
Kakashi was not tricking him. He’s also not what Fumikage expected. He’s not sure what he expected, now that he thinks about it. The only picture he’s ever had for Kakashi’s appearance is that vague outline resembling a person. Here, he’s unmistakably human.
Spiky silvery hair, strands unruly and partially drooping over a headband with an unfamiliar symbol that looks like a leaf engraved on it. He’s wearing clothes that look like combat gear. Only a quarter of his face is actually visible - a mask covers the bottom half of his face and the headband is tugged down to cover his left eye. Does the red color of that eye in the real world symbolize a missing eye?
He doesn’t look fifty. More like thirty, even if he does have gray hair. Maybe he erased his wrinkles. That, or the fact that most of his face isn’t even visible is messing with Fumikage’s eyes.
“You finally got it. Nice to meet you, Tokoyami Fumikage,” Kakashi says, raising a hand in greeting. “Welcome to... your mindscape, I suppose you could call it.”
Said mindscape is surprisingly organized. When he imagines a physical representation of his mind, he thinks of darkness and chaos and random thoughts floating around, or maybe a place he’s familiar with like his bedroom. Instead it look more like a field surrounded by an overgrown forest. The trees are bigger than any he’s ever seen before. Kakashi is standing next to a strangely shaped, polished-black stone of some kind, but he starts walking towards Fumikage and blocks his view of it before he can observe it further.
“Mindscape?” Fumikage asks.
“Seems to be a side effect of having more than one mind in one. I knew a few people with demons in their heads who mentioned having a shared subconscious space like this,” Kakashi says.
What.
He likes doing this. He’ll say something concerning and with dangerous implications like it’s just another Tuesday, and then act oblivious if Fumikage calls him out on it. It’s maddening.
“Demons?” Fumikage tries.
Kakashi’s eyes crinkle in a smile. With that mask on, it doesn’t look all that different from the smiles he’s always given Fumikage. “Mm, as they’re not-so-affectionately called by some of the people in my world. Don’t worry about it.”
Like he can just forget that. “But are we talking about genuine demons?”
“I suppose it depends on your definition of ‘demon,’” Kakashi says. It’s obvious he has no intention of giving his definition of the word.
Wait. “Are they like you are now?”
Kakashi hums. “Not quite. Good guess, though.”
Fumikage gives up. He’s just going to be verbally run in circles if he keeps trying to push the subject. It’s possible Kakashi knows what led to him becoming a quirk, but if so, he’s not telling. Fumikage changes the subject. “So this is what you looked like in your world?”
“A close approximation, at least,” Kakashi says.
“Is there a reason for the mask?”
“I was a shinobi.”
Fumikage’s eyes bulge. “Are you serious?”
A ninja. Fumikage has a real life, bonafide ninja living in his head.
Kakashi raises an eyebrow. “It’s not an uncommon profession in my world. Nothing to get excited over.”
“But -” Fumikage does not stumble over his words to try to explain how cool this is, before deciding to skip over that part completely. He doesn’t want Kakashi to make fun of him. “Um. What exactly do... shinobi... do? Are they like heroes?”
Kakashi shrugs. “Outside of some superficial similarities, no.”
Fumikage considers this. “Were you pretty strong?”
“Hm... I suppose you could say that.”
Somehow he gets the sense Kakashi is intentionally downplaying it. He doesn’t look all that dangerous, not with that slouch, hands in his pockets and an absent stare like he’s not really paying attention to his surroundings. And that hair... he doesn’t seem like he’d be very good at stealth, either. He looks so distinctive. But perhaps Fumikage’s approaching this from the wrong direction - the definition of a shinobi might be different in another world. Maybe the meaning just changed over time, like the meaning of the word “hero” has in his own world.
“Do you miss it? Fighting, I mean. Doing shinobi work.”
Kakashi is silent for a few moments. “It’s hard to say.”
He doesn’t elaborate further, and after that all of Fumikage’s questions are redirected or ignored completely.
--
Learning to enter his own mind feels like learning to ride a bicycle. Once he’d figured out the feeling, how to disconnect his senses from the real world, it’s easy to do it again.
He has a feeling he could manipulate the form this mindscape takes, if he was so inclined. But somehow... that doesn’t seem right to do. Like it would be a violation. It may be a shared mental space, but all the same it feels like it belongs to Kakashi more than himself.
Kakashi has no reservations over changing the space however he pleases. One day it’s the field, then the center of a dense forest, the next a sprawling, dusty, traditional house that feels uncomfortably unlived-in.
But one of Kakashi’s favorite layouts - and Fumikage’s personal favorite - is a library. Scrolls and books neatly line a respectably sized room and shelves within it. At first he assumes the contents must be empty, since the books are nothing more than a figment of imagination, but to his surprise each one contains unique text that fits the covers.
“I have a photographic memory,” Kakashi said when Fumikage asked how it’s possible. “All of these are books I’ve read before. Nothing new, unfortunately. Unless you’d like to let me make a stop at a bookstore to read through some new material.”
A.k.a. make more books conveniently “disappear” from the shelves. He’ll borrow some books from the library instead on Kakashi’s behalf.
When Fumikage steps into the mindscape today, it’s into the library. Kakashi glances over at him from his spot at the center of the room. “Fumikage,” he says in greeting. He must sense Fumikage’s unease, because he sets down his book and gives him his full attention. “What’s the matter?”
Fumikage’s planned this out. He’s rehearsed what he wants to say, how he wants to say it, how to lead up to it. But now, looking at Kakashi, it sounds frivolous in his mind. Kakashi will see through him in a second. He probably already knows what Fumikage’s going to ask. So he cuts straight to the heart of it.
“Help me become a hero,” Fumikage says. “Become a hero with me.”
And he’s lost Kakashi’s attention. ”I’m not interested in playing the popularity games those heroes are always pandering to,” he responds.
Fumikage closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He’s ten years old now, way too old to get upset if he doesn’t get his way. He’ll stay calm and rational, even if he’s arguing with an incorporeal being who’s only interested in helping him if he sees value in it, and whose values are decidedly not the same as Fumikage’s.
“There’s more than one kind of hero out there,” he tries.
“And to make a living, they’re all still out there trying to get noticed and doing publicity stunts or marketing deals.”
“So it’s profiting off hero work that you have an issue with?” It would be hard to be a full-time hero if Fumikage doesn’t take any compensation for it, but maybe he can figure something out if that’s what it takes.
He’s wanted this for as long as he can remember. Dreamed of it, before his quirk manifested and it became obvious that dream wasn’t going to happen without his quirk’s explicit agreement. Kakashi is far too uncooperative to be of any use if he doesn’t want to help, and he doesn’t seem to find heroes impressive in the slightest. And Fumikage’s not naïve. He knows he can’t do it alone. He’d be as good as quirkless - worse than quirkless, if Kakashi decides to sabotage him.
Kakashi waves a hand dismissively. “I don’t care if they’re getting compensated for it. If heroism is your job, it makes sense you’d get paid for working, even if the job title is a bit misleading. It’s the way you’re all but forced into the spotlight that annoys me. Ah, and the fake selflessness they’re pretending to have.”
He’s not wrong. Becoming a hero is essentially synonymous with becoming a public figure. Fumikage isn’t even quite sure what happens to heroes that don’t catch any public attention. They probably get stuck as sidekicks or have to retire and get other jobs.
“I know you’re bored,” he says, crossing his arms. “You’ve been forced to tag along with a random kid’s boring old life for almost six years now. Heroes live exciting and dangerous lives. There’s a decent chance I would die young, too, and then your soul would be released from whatever trapped it here.”
Kakashi raises his eyebrows. “You’re trying to convince me by using your own death as a bargaining chip?”
“Is it working?” Fumikage counters.
“No.”
Dang it.
--
“What about becoming an underground hero?” Fumikage suggests a few days later.
Kakashi doesn’t shift his focus from his book. Said book was “acquired” from an unknown source and has a poorly-designed raunchy cover, which is more than enough to deter Fumikage from taking a closer look. He’s learned not to question Kakashi’s reading habits (or sources) too closely. “Hm... and what’s that?”
“Heroes that operate outside of the public eye,” Fumikage says.
Success. Kakashi’s paying attention now. “So even those sanctimonious heroes have a group to do their dirty work? I can’t say it’s a surprise.”
Fumikage files the word sanctimonious away for future use. “I just found out about it today,” he admits. “There’s not much information about them online, which is likely intentional. I don’t think there’s many of them out there.”
“Well, I won’t lie and say I’m not intrigued,” Kakashi says after a pause. “It sounds much more interesting than sitting around while you work a corporate position somewhere. But is this something you want? Don’t you like the appeal of public admiration and all the accolades that come with regular kinds of hero work?”
Fumikage shrugs. “I wouldn’t mind the acknowledgement, but it’s not that important to me. I’ll have to do more research into this, of course.”
“Start physical training too, if you’re serious about it,” Kakashi advises. “The younger you start, the faster you’ll improve.”
Fumikage opens a new tab and searches up ‘hero training routines’, scrolling through all the program ads that immediately flood the front page. He doesn’t know where to start. “How old were you when you started training to become a shinobi?”
“Around two years old,” Kakashi says.
Fumikage pauses. He turns off the phone screen and stares at Kakashi. “...Is that normal in your world?”
“If you’re born into a clan? Yes.”
Fumikage does not ask how old they are when they become shinobi. He has a feeling he doesn’t really want to know.
--
“I know I said you may have a chance of escaping this world if I died, but I hope you won’t try to kill me.”
“...You may not be able to see my expression right now, but please understand I’m feeling very offended. Do you really think I’d kill you?”
“There’s no harm in covering all my bases.”
“If I had plans to kill you, I would have done it already. Besides, I agreed to make you one of my students, didn’t I? I don’t kill my students.”
It feels like there’s a weight behind that statement that Fumikage doesn’t have the context to understand. He doesn’t press it. He knows he wouldn’t get an answer if he tried.
--
Fumikage is unmistakably a beginner. It’s obvious in every wobbling kick he makes, in the way he curls his thumb under his fingers when he throws a punch in a way that’ll definitely break it if he hits something hard enough, in all the gaps in his defenses. He’s like a first-year academy student.
Wonderful. It had been hard enough to try to teach a group of genin who’d at least had a grasp on the basics of how a fight works. Fumikage’s clearly never been in a fight in his life, not even a schoolyard scrap.
The elementary school Fumikage attends is not designed for aspiring heroes. It doesn’t even offer basic hero training. The closest to it is the quirk control training each child gets after their quirk manifests, but they’d been more concerned with preventing quirk misfires than learning how to use a quirk in a fight. This is a prime age for learning. Young kids soak up knowledge so much easier than older ones, not to mention the solid foundation that would set them up for success in mastering advanced techniques.
Kakashi’s not going to be able to work with this. Even boredom isn’t quite enough to make him want to try to teach a kid the basics of basics.
“You should ask your parents to sign you up for a martial arts class,” he suggests.
Fumikage glances at him. “Why? You said you know how to fight. Can’t you teach me?”
“You’d have an easier time learning from someone else in the beginning.”
“Why?”
Why. Why, why, why. The most annoying yet most common question out of kids. Kakashi bites back his irritation. “I’m a teacher for intermediate to advanced students, not beginners. Show me you’re serious. Come back when you’ve learned how to throw a proper punch.”
--
Fumikage doesn’t complain about Kakashi’s dismissal. He doesn’t whine or beg Kakashi to change his mind like he’d expected the kid to. It’s clear he’s not happy about it, but he accepts it and within a week has convinced his parents to sign him up for a moderately intense martial arts program.
And he’s a fast learner. He’s observant and analytical enough to pick up moves and techniques without needing to observe it more than just a couple times. He struggles to keep up with the exercise regiments at first, but he doesn’t give up on it. Within a few weeks he’s at the same pace as his peers, then surpassing many of them when it comes to form and technique. He’s smaller than most kids his age, but he isn’t letting that hold him back.
He’ll be a tolerable student once he’s further along. He reminds Kakashi a little of Sakura, with similar intelligence and an attention to detail. He’s not just learning how to hit something, he’s learning where and how to strike to achieve the result he’s looking for. He doesn’t waste his energy performing unnecessarily flashy moves.
While Fumikage works on the basics, Kakashi continues testing the limitations of this form. The longer he’s been incorporeal the less laws of physics truly feel like they apply to him, and the more he uses it to his advantage.
He can’t store weapons on himself, but his fingertips can sharpen into blades. He can change his size and it’s easier in dim lighting. The darker it is, the further away from Fumikage he can get before he’s forced to pull back. He can choose to pass through items like a vapor or become completely solid.
He tries using Kamui on a few miscellaneous items he doubts will be missed, and they warp out of existence as expected. He can’t feel any noticeable impact from the power drain it normally uses, but Fumikage suddenly steps out of the training session he was working on citing a need to take a break.
He doesn’t seem to realize what just happened, and Kakashi doesn’t bring attention to it. If Fumikage needs to know, he’ll tell him. Until then, better he’s not aware of the sharingan’s capabilities. He has a feeling it would draw unwanted attention to themselves if it ever got out.
--
Kakashi starts stepping in more and more frequently as Fumikage improves in his training.
At first he only helps correct his form and point out mistakes. Over time he starts making more suggestions, then tries introducing new techniques. It’s harder than he’d anticipated. The lack of a physical form puts a pretty big damper on things; there’s only so much he can demonstrate like this.
“Do you trust me?” Kakashi asks, after watching another failed attempt.
Fumikage lets his arms drop to his side. “Yes.”
Kakashi… he’s a bit touched, actually. He’d expected some hesitation, maybe some snark to disguise discomfort. “Will you let me try something new?”
Fumikage nods.
“Don’t panic,” Kakashi says, and lets his shadows wrap around Fumikage’s body like a cloak.
He can feel Fumikage’s limbs stiffen in surprise, but the kid doesn’t try to wrench free. Fumikage’s heart is racing. He doesn’t say a word. Kakashi pulls up and Fumikage’s arm goes up with him.
It’s completely unlike moving his own physical body. It’s jerky, awkward, as he tries to figure out how much force to put behind it and Fumikage tries to follow along while instinctively resisting it at first. It’s not a problem. This can always be practiced later if it’s something that will prove to be useful. For now, he limits it to getting Fumikage’s body into the proper form for the technique before backing off.
“Like this,” Kakashi explains. “Your footwork was off.”
“Oh,” Fumikage says. He doesn’t get upset or question Kakashi on what he’d just done. He accepts it and moves on.
Kakashi’s getting fond of this kid.
--
“Your vocabulary has gotten more dramatic recently,” Kakashi observes with a note of amusement.
Fumikage huffs. “My vocabulary is simply expanding.”
“Hm... well, it does fit your aesthetic. Should I start brooding to help sell the act?”
His eye twitches. “Please don’t make yourself even more insufferable than you already are.”
--
“Have you ever killed someone?”
Kakashi is silent for several long moments, hands stilling over his book. There’s a weight to that quiet, one that has Fumikage’s stomach dropping. He doesn’t even have to say it. If he denied it now, Fumikage doesn’t think he’d believe him.
“I have,” Kakashi finally says. He isn’t looking at him, but Fumikage can still sense he’s paying close attention. “Does that upset you?”
Fumikage stares at his hands, picking at the skin around a small cut on his knuckle. He’d suspected it for a while. Kakashi doesn’t seem to have the same regard for life most of the others in his life do. It’s not that Kakashi seems psychopathic or sadistic. He doesn’t encourage Fumikage to hurt people or show amusement when people are in pain.
But... he doesn’t seem to care much about others, either. It’s the reason Fumikage hadn’t believed him at first when he’d claimed to be human. Pain, death, corruption... he acts like it’s all completely normal. Sometimes it feels like he’s doing what he thinks is expected out of him, mimicking empathy without knowing how to express it in a genuine way.
He doesn’t share much about his own world, but small statements and references over time have coalesced into a painting of a hostile place Fumikage wouldn’t want to visit even if he had the chance to.
“I don’t know how I feel,” Fumikage admits. There’s blood under his fingernail where the cut broke back open. Idly, he wonders if it’ll be bleeding when he goes back into the real world or if it’s all in his mind. “Was it a lot of people?”
There’s an even longer pause. “It was.”
He exhales sharply. “Do you ever think about them?”
“I haven’t forgotten about them, if that’s what you mean.”
“Do you regret it?”
Kakashi rubs the back of his neck. “This may be difficult for you to understand, but the morality between our worlds isn’t very compatible. For your sake I try to respect most of the laws of your society because I know my choices will ultimately fall on you, but if you try to apply your moral standard to my life you’ll find yourself sorely disappointed with the result.”
Fumikage contemplates this and tries to understand. It’s hard to imagine a world where human life might not be worth much. Where killing is commonplace. Kakashi’s being vague on purpose, and there’s a growing knot in Fumikage’s stomach suggesting the reason behind it is because Kakashi had once been the equivalent of a villain.
But even if that’s true… it’s not the case anymore. The worst thing Kakashi’s done since waking up as Fumikage’s quirk is some petty thievery and property damage. He’d agreed to become a hero with Fumikage. He can’t be a bad person.
“You’re right. It is hard for me to understand. But I’m doing my best to understand, even though you’re always vague and dismissive whenever the subject of your old life comes up,” Fumikage says slowly. “We’ve known each other for almost ten years, and sometimes it still feels like I barely know you. If you want me to understand, to see where you’re coming from, can’t you tell me a little about your world? About yourself? What it was really like.”
Kakashi eyes him, considering. Fumikage doesn’t speak. Nothing else he can say at this point will change whatever conclusion Kakashi comes to. If he says no, if he decides to make light of the situation instead of answering seriously... well. That’ll be the end of it.
“There’s not much to say,” Kakashi finally says. “It was a world at war up until the last few years of my life. Shinobi were essentially the equivalent of your military. We carried out missions and fought for the protection and success of our villages. In some cases, that meant killing. That was the reality for everyone who chose to become a shinobi, and I was no exception. Does that tell you what you wanted to know?”
“So you were a soldier?” It makes... a lot of sense. Some of the mystery behind certain attitudes and behaviors Kakashi holds are starting to slot into place.
“I was.”
“How old were you the first time you killed someone?”
“I was six years old,” Kakashi says. “But I was an outlier. Most end up killing for the first time when they’re closer to fourteen.” His voice is calm, unconcerned, like the thought of a child killing others is completely unnoteworthy.
And with a start, Fumikage realizes that to him, it is. This is what Kakashi had meant when he compared their worlds’ moral compasses. To Fumikage, Kakashi’s world sounds sociopathic. Cruel. Inhumane. A place where children are sent into war to kill and be killed seems unjustifiable. And Kakashi… he’d said he was over fifty years old. He’d mentioned students. He’d probably helped train other kids for that kind of future.
How does Kakashi see Fumikage’s world?
How does he see Fumikage?
Fumikage is thirteen years old right now. If he’d been born into Kakashi’s world, he would be expected to be ready to kill by now. To have blood on his hands.
He’s not ready. He’s not sure he ever will be. Heroes don’t go into a fight with the intent to kill, but it’s unrealistic to believe it never happens. Most serious heroes will end up taking a villain’s life eventually.
“What if... what if I have to kill someone? As a hero.” Fumikage’s throat feels dry. Maybe Kakashi isn’t a good person to ask. But he has to have figured out coping strategies. Compartmentalization. “They always try to avoid it, but sometimes... how do you deal with it?”
There’s a dark, unfamiliar note in Kakashi’s voice. “If you ever find yourself in that situation, let me handle it. I’ll take care of it myself.”
Fumikage hates himself for the comfort that statement brings him.
--
Fumikage is fourteen and high school entrance exams are looming around the corner. He is not nervous. He is unflappable. Unshakable. He has been working towards this for almost a third of his life. U.A. may be too much of a stretch to hope for, but he will surely meet at least one hero school’s entry requirements. Unlike most applicants, he won’t be taking them alone.
Fumikage is on his own for the written portion of entrance exams. Even if Kakashi was the type to offer assistance, Fumikage wouldn’t have accepted it. This is a test of his own merit, not a hurdle he would want Kakashi to solve for him.
The practicals are another matter. Quirkless people don’t pass those tests, and that’s essentially what Fumikage is if Kakashi’s out of the equation. His avian features on their own don’t give him any advantages. Kakashi is legally considered his quirk, even if they consider themselves separate entities. If Fumikage is going to be a hero, it’s going to be with Kakashi.
The announcer with the extravagant blond updo screams the signal to start.
And they merge.
It’s not a true merging in the literal sense of the word. Their minds don’t combine and they’re still, in essence, two separate beings. But Kakashi’s shadows envelop Fumikage without restricting him, allowing him to influence Fumikage’s movements without totally taking away control.
Kakashi’s reflexes are unparalleled. He can move before Fumikage’s even registered a threat, twisting them out of harm’s way and executing maneuvers Fumikage hasn’t gotten close to learning even after several years of intense martial arts training. Kakashi makes it feel so easy, like it all comes completely naturally. He’d known early on that Kakashi was strong, but feeling it directly has really hammered it in.
Even after experiencing the techniques firsthand, he doesn’t think he could replicate them. Not without an insane amount of practice.
It’s the middle of the day. The sun is intense, few clouds in sight, buildings offering little in the way of shade. It’s one of the worst environments they could be working in.
Kakashi doesn’t try anything big or flashy. Fumikage’s hand smashes in tandem with Kakashi’s against a robot’s leg, a tendril of shadow shooting through a crack in the metal plates where they’re bolted together. Electricity sparks in the robot’s chest as something shorts out, and it tips over in slow motion.
They’re on the move again before it hits the ground.
The fighting is exhilarating. Adrenaline sings in his veins as they move through the streets. Even with the environment working against them, they tear through the robots without much trouble. A few times Kakashi reaches to the side and tosses students who weren’t paying enough attention to their surroundings out of the way of attacking or collapsing mechs.
It’s over as quickly as it had started.
Applicants pick their way back through the rubble to the entrance, some in worse shape than others. Fumikage is drained, everything feeling just a little too bright and intense, and he has a feeling it’s the same for Kakashi, who’d retreated out of the physical world almost immediately after the exam ended.
And now they wait.
--
The letter from U.A. arrives a few long, long weeks later. Most of the other schools he’d applied to had already sent theirs at this point, most of them acceptance letters. But U.A. is his dream school. It’s the elite of the elite.
He’s pretty certain they did well. He’d been too focused on the task at hand to focus on the other applicants’ performances, but those robots were no joke. Most average students would struggle to take down one, much less the number he and Kakashi had neutralized.
But U.A. is not your average school. Almost every student serious about pursuing heroism was at that exam. There are only forty spots available per year.
He takes a deep breath and opens the envelope.
“Congratulations, young Tokoyami Fumikage!” All Might’s voice booms out of a miniature projector. “You have passed U.A.’s entrance exams with flying colors! With a total of 59 villain points and 16 rescue points on the practical, you surpassed your peers to come in second place!”
All Might continues on, explaining he’s taken a position as one of the teachers at U.A. this upcoming year and that he looks forward to seeing Fumikage in class. Fumikage’s only partially listening. His eyes are stuck on the small scoring chart displayed behind the hero’s holographic image.
Second place.
When Fumikage had first woken up with Kakashi as his quirk, he’d thought his dreams of becoming a hero were over. That he’d never be able to reason with Kakashi or work together with him in any meaningful way. In a way, it had felt like his quirk had been stolen from him.
It hadn’t been easy for either of them to adjust. Fumikage had resented Kakashi for intruding on his mind and Kakashi had likely resented him in turn for the loss of his independence, even if he’d claimed otherwise. They’d hardly even spoken for the first few years.
Kakashi, despite their forced cohabitation, is extremely independent. He doesn’t coddle Fumikage or offer any assistance in social situations. He can’t be pushed into doing anything he doesn’t want to do. His words are rarely meant to hurt, but he doesn’t sugarcoat things if he has something to say. He isn’t the type of person anyone would describe as kind.
But at the same time, he seems to genuinely care about Fumikage, even if his way of showing it isn’t exactly conventional. He never treats Fumikage like a child or like he can’t understand something. Teaching doesn’t seem to be in his nature, but he’d still put in time and effort helping Fumikage learn skills to help him succeed as a hero – even though the career wasn’t one Kakashi had initially wanted to pursue.
Fumikage will never be alone. He can’t even imagine an existence where he doesn’t have Kakashi there with him, offering advice and commentary (whether he wants it or not). Even if everyone in the world rejects him, even when he becomes an underground hero where no one will know his name, he’ll always have Kakashi by his side.
“Congratulations, Fumikage,” Kakashi says. There’s a note of pride in his voice. Warmth. “You’ve worked hard for this.”
Fumikage carefully turns off the small projector and looks up at Kakashi. “We did it,” he says. “Together.”
And he wouldn’t change it for the world.