the wildest hath not such a heart as you

i have not been as others were; i have not seen as others saw

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov'd—I lov'd alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn.

- Edgar Allen Poe, Alone

-

Izuku is seven when he meets his first spirit.

He is sprawled on the ground from where he's been pushed down the steps of his primary school, a large red circle, about to form into a bruise, blossoming on his shin. He pokes at it, morbidly curious, and a shadow falls over him. "Oh, darling," a voice says. "What have they done to you?"

He looks up.

The man looks down at him. His eyes crinkle on the edges, making a speck of the gold glitter coating his eyelids flutter down and land on Izuku's cheek as red lips quirk into a very, very small smile, elegant as the rich people Izuku sometimes sees on the outside of churches or cinemas.

Izuku's gaze flickers downwards when movement catches his eye, towards the man's kimono as it changes. It's dark and crimson as coagulated blood, with a thick white fur trim and hems that brush the ground; then it's pretty-as-you-please pink, a pale sakura blossom colour, with a high waist and plunging neckline; then it's vibrant as a hero's costume, with little gold flowers embroidered over the shoulders and into a pattern that spirals down the right side; then it's—

Izuku looks away before he gets lost in it forever. "You're very pretty," he tells the man, eyes focused on his face rather than on his constantly-changing kimono. "What's your name?"

The man places a hand on his chest, letting clawed nails Izuku thinks can tear apart flesh reflect the sunlight, and he laughs, bright and loud as chimes. "Thank you, darling," he says, as he crouches down to Izuku's level, sitting on his haunches. This close, Izuku can see the details in the man's dark red eyes and slitted pupils, and the smudged eyeliner so artful he thinks his mom would swoon if she ever saw it. "But don't you know the rules?"

Izuku's cheeks flood with familiar heat, like whenever someone asks him about his quirk or his dad and he can't say anything in reply, and he looks away from the man. "I'm a Deku," he admits. "I don't know anything."

Fingers grab his chin, gentle but insistent, and Izuku's head is turned so that he's forced to look straight into the man's mesmerising eyes. "No," the man says firmly. "No, you may not be a—a Deku, but you aren't stupid. I can feel it."

"Really?" he whispers. The man nods and lets go of his chin, but Izuku doesn't look away. "Do you really mean it?"

"Yes," the man says. He leans closer, close enough that Izuku can feel the man's fragrant perfume curl around his nose like a tangible thing. "I'll teach you everything you need to know, so something like this—" He strokes a gentle hand over Izuku's throbbing shin, skin cool to the touch, and Izuku shivers. "—will never happen again."

The man leans back, swiping a finger over Izuku's cheekbone in a repetitive motion, and Izuku can't help but lean into the touch. "You can call me Kiku-no-Hana, darling," the man says, his voice firm as the ground they stand on. "I'm a spirit, and I'm going to help you."

For the first time in three years, Izuku dares to hope.

Izuku is eight when Kiku-no-Hana leads him through Musutafu at two in the morning. Neon lights reflect on rain puddles from the night before, and the traffic lights tint everything red and green. Some cars still drive on the road—drunk teenagers on convertibles, taxis from the airport, stragglers driving to their shifts—but it's rare enough that the only sound penetrating the air is the bass from the nightclubs under his feet.