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Tonkatsu is the first thing Tamaki ever manifests, translating to half-formed pig snouts poking through his palms that throw his sister’s sixth birthday party into chaos. The grudge she holds against him for stealing the spotlight that day lasts almost a month; when his dad tries to cheer him up by remarking what a good party trick he has, Tamaki only cries harder.
--
Mirio is seven when he pushes his luck a little too far and slices his arm trying to phase it through a chain link fence. Three hours at the emergency room and ten stitches later, he’s as good as new, if now wary of any surfaces with excessive holes in them.
--
With a quirk like Manifestation, it’s impossible for Tamaki to vomit - he should know, he’s tried many times. It’s a clever adaptation, and one he supposes makes sense: after all, how can you manifest anything on an empty stomach? Still, he tries not to think too deeply about the consequences of suppressing a reflex meant to purge, not keep.
--
Kinoshita-san from two doors down always gives Mirio a handful of sticky Sakuma drops, whenever he picks up sticks in her yard, or helps her bring in groceries. Mirio has never had much of a sweet tooth, but gladly accepts them; he appreciates helping as its own reward, anyway.
--
Tamaki knows at some point, Mirio will get sick of his shyness and scamper off to play with the other kids, bursting with laughter and light, and other things Tamaki can’t give him. But that day never comes.
--
His father and teachers constantly chide him over his restlessness, but what they don’t know – and what Mirio will never tell them – is that he’s perfectly capable of being still and calm. Like: when he concentrates hard and tries to phase his fingers through the wall. Like: when there are too many people around and Tamaki’s hand gets clammy in his own and he starts gasping for air, like he’s being crushed.
(Mirio always squeezes back, sure and steady.)
--
Tamaki’s fingers are split and sore from manifesting octopus arms, and Mirio happily wraps them in his All Might bandages. When Mirio smooths a couple on the back of his hand, Tamaki says, “I don’t need them there.”
Mirio’s grin is blithe and innocent, “Well, just in case I missed a spot,” is the reply.
--
“It should be, ‘The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog’,” Tamaki gently corrects him, “but other than that, it looks fine.” Mirio hastily corrects the verb and adds the missing article, before he turns in his English homework.
--
Logically, Tamaki knows Mirio’s quirk is inherently more challenging, rife with nuances no rational person would ever desire, but occasionally he catches himself wondering what it would be like to sink deep into black earth and never surface again.
--
The back of Mirio’s hand smears red when he wipes his nose; it drains to the back of his throat and the glob of spit he hacks up is tinged with blood. His nose is tender for a week following the stint with the gazebo in his backyard, but it’s going to take more than a little pain to stop him from trying again.
--
An entire kingdom of DNA separates plants from animals, an invisible barrier making them harder to conjure. The good news is, the workaround is simple: all Tamaki has to do is imagine himself stretching into the sky, towards sun.
--
“The journey ahead will be full of difficulties. Sometimes the only way to win is to not quit,” his father tells him quietly, handing Mirio a package of frozen mukimame. Mirio takes it and gingerly presses it to the lump on his temple, scrubbing his eyes with his free hand. He allows himself one more sorry snuffle, before he stands back up and tries full-body phasing again.
--
For many people, Mirio’s most charming features include his his million-watt smile and his infectious, boisterous enthusiasm for life. For Tamaki, he prefers the quieter moments, the ones where Mirio warbles old enka songs while he carves them chunks of watermelon, or the times where he laughs and it’s a little softer, more unguarded, the sound nestling itself in the space between Tamaki’s lungs and diaphragm and swelling.
--
It isn't right to say Mirio gets frustrated with Tamaki, but he wishes Tamaki would realize true bravery doesn’t always involve vanquishing external danger in a grandiose fashion; that sometimes it’s recognizing the danger is internal and overwhelming, but choosing to face it anyway with quiet resilience.
--
When Tamaki forces himself to dig deep and piece together how he really feels about Mirio, the feeling in his chest expands, threatening to burst into a supernova with one wrong glance and suffocate him.
--
Mirio almost gets into a fistfight with a second year his first week at U.A., when the guy makes a nasty remark about the way Tamaki fidgets whenever there are too many pairs of eyes on him. Almost, because just as Mirio is about to deck him in the jaw, a girl beats him to the punch – literally – by sending the kid flying with her shockwaves into the lockers across the hallway. Mirio never has trouble with him again, and subsequently he and Tamaki start a lovely friendship with Hadou-san that day.
--
U.A. is smothering – there’s too many people, too many questions, too much pressure to succeed and stand out, too many chances to fail. But for Mirio, Tamaki wants to try.
--
Mirio tries his best to be kind and just, but it’s hard to feel anything aside from roiling, consuming anger knowing a little girl has been broken down again and again, and knowing he could have ended her suffering sooner.
--
Tamaki ascends darkness – and knows.
--
The next time Mirio talks to Tamaki, it's in an ICU room.
“It really is gone, isn't it?” Tamaki whispers.
“But I'm still here,” Mirio tells him, without hesitation.
--
Tamaki can't be entirely angry with his classmates – if it had happened to anyone else, he would be just as stunned, too – but Mirio deserves a hero's celebration, not classmates speaking to him in soft, soothing voices instead of laughter, like one breath louder and he'd shatter.
--
Mirio is fine. He is fortunate, he is alive, he is still a hero. His classmates give him meaningful stares and let their hands linger on his arms a little too long. His left shoulder only throbs intermittently.
--
The dreams begin different each time, but they always end the same. Tamaki's fingers brush the hideout's false wall and they sink through, then his arm, his shoulder, his legs - he drifts weightless between two phases, before Mirio's body comes into focus, stiff and oozing red like the sun. Tamaki opens his mouth, and the air is sucked out of him like a vacuum, endless and burning his lungs.
He never falls back asleep after having those dreams.
--
Mirio is fine. He receives full credit on his internship, the highest academic achievement he’s ever earned in school. The pain in his left shoulder pulses under his skin on a near constant basis, but people have suffered worse than he has.
He tells himself he’s still Lemillion, but the more he repeats it, the less he believes it.
--
Tamaki thinks Mirio’s arms and hands are beautiful. They’re not perfect, but they’re his, powerful and solid, but so gentle and patient; broad sinew marred by scars and -
“Mirio,” Tamaki says slowly, “how did you get those bruises on your arm?”
“Accidentally smacked myself on a wall. Must be gettin’ clumsy,” he replies automatically.
But Tamaki knows with a Quirk like Permeation, being clumsy was never an option.
--
Mirio is fine. Nezu-sensei tells him, Please don’t let despair consume you, Togata-san. You will become an outstanding hero. We will help you. We will find a way.
He fixes his stare on a point past Nezu-sensei’s shoulder, to the wall, and knows one thing: evil dies hard, but old habits die harder.
--
Tamaki knows his limitations well: he can’t shine like Mirio, can’t hold eye contact like Mirio, can’t be brave in a way that matters, like Mirio. But he’ll fight tooth and nail for his convictions, bloody and bitter, like Mirio.
--
Mirio is fine. He holds his head high when he walks U.A.’s halls and helps lost first years find their way to guidance counselors. The bruises on his knuckles and his arms are finally fading into a mottled yellow.
“You are not fine,” Tamaki snarls, balling the collar of Mirio’s shirt tight in his fist. “You may be able to fool everyone else, but you can’t fool me. I don’t know if I can help you, but at least let me try, Mirio.”
This time, Mirio lets himself break into Tamaki’s slackening grip.
--
--
(“I should have followed you in, Mirio.”
“If you would have gotten hurt, I would have never forgiven myself.”
“I’m so sorry for letting you down.”
“Don’t apologize. You didn’t. You haven’t.”
“You mean everything to me, Mirio. I hope you know that. We’ll do this together.”
Mirio lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in; for a second, his shoulder stops hurting.)