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The first time was not by choice, nor did it have anything to do with the habit Tamaki later cultivated.
He was seven-years old, standing at the edge of the yard where several of his classmates were kicking a soccer ball. He didn’t know anyone’s name and doubted anyone remembered his from this morning when he introduced himself. He was halfway through second grade and alone as ever.
The bench he sat on was sandy from the strong, early morning gusts. He traced fluid and connecting shapes into a thin, grainy layer with no meaning or real form.
He froze when he felt it, the tickle at the back of his hand. He stared at the skin, his heart pounding its way up his throat until it throbbed in his ears. When a leaf snaked out from underneath, he shut his eyes tight and clawed at it, ripping it from its premature stem.
It fluttered to the ground, and when he opened his eyes, he was met with a green stub protruding from his knuckle. Another popped up beside it. Horrifying. It reminded him of the ants crawling out of the mound at the park, and his breathing went rough as he scrubbed the foliage to crumbled bits.
The soccer ball slammed into his head and he was knocked from his seat, a pile in the dirt before the supervising teacher reached him. He was crying and dirty, and when she managed to pick him up and asked him to stand, he turned his head to the side and lost his lunch down the front of her shirt.
The second time was six years later and a decision he had to make.
P.E. was always his worst subject. The coach pressured him to run just as fast as everyone, to throw as hard as everyone, to jump as high as everyone. He could do all these things on his own, in his backyard, with only his father watching while reading a book. But this was school, and the eyes that watched were accompanied by whispers and giggles.
Today was a quirk examination to ensure healthy development, or so the teachers said. Tamaki thought of it as a scheme to get his nerves to sweat and his lungs to collapse from shallow breaths.
Today, as with any day, he found it impossible to conjure up the lettuce and wheat from the sandwich he’d eaten earlier.
“Go, go, Tamaki!”
Mirio.
And then everyone else joined in.
Tamaki’s stomach did a flip and he had the urge to burp, except it got stuck as it was rising, and he had to force himself to swallow down the bitter taste before he choked.
Then it was there, a worming at his skin before it paled to an ashen yellow and split into crisp, verdant leaves. He shuddered at the sensation. Bugs crawling on him, ready to eat his manifestation. He had no idea what he was supposed to do with a cabbage fist, but everyone was clapping and in awe while he tried to move his fingers. It was as if he doesn’t have them anymore. Sleep paralysis in his hand.
He slapped his flesh hand over his mouth and turned, spitting out bile and undigested bread into an arc on the dirt. His classmates shrieked and started shouting. Gross. Amajiki, disgusting. A horror story.
They were right, he thought as Mirio grabbed him by the shoulders and ushered him off to the nurse’s office.
Later, the coach told him that if he wasn’t feeling well, then he didn’t have to go through with the exams.
“Quirks are hard on the body, I know.”
And that’s how it started.
“How has your appetite been?” his therapist asked, because she had to.
He shrugged and fiddled with the drawstrings of his hoodie.
She scratched something down in her notepad.
“It’s okay,” he blurted out, and she kept scratching.
He tried it out just to see, and when he said he was feeling sick, that he hadn’t been able to eat so he wouldn’t be able to show off his quirk, the coach said okay. Get well soon. Go home if you’re feeling too ill.
Mirio sat with him in the nurse’s office, holding onto his own bandaged, bloody fist. As he talked about the comedy skit he’d seen last night, Tamaki reached out to touch his hand and wondered if he ever thought about breaking his arm so that he wouldn’t have to feel the shame.
The dinner his dad had prepared had been difficult to resist. Baked chicken covered in a variety of herbs, vegetable soup with a shellfish broth, custard cake from the bakery near the station. A celebration because Tamaki scored with distinction in his class. Number one for midterms. He ate everything without thinking twice.
When he did his homework, he saw the note in his planner about the following day’s quirk exam, and he went cold. He sat in his room, listening for any signs that his dad was awake. Once it was confirmed that he had gone to bed, Tamaki padded down the hallway to the bathroom, quietly shut the door, and knelt on the toilet rug.
His throat was sore when he woke up, so he chugged a bottle of water and told his dad he was too full from last night to eat even a single grain of rice.
“I didn’t eat much so I can’t use my quirk,” he told the coach.
Scratching on a notepad.
“Go to the nurse if you’re feeling sick.”
Tamaki wasn’t, he just needed to drink more water. He sat on the side with the rest of the class, and Mirio scooted next to him. Touched his hand. Whispered, “Okay?”
Tamaki nodded. No nurse. No stains on his clothes.
He tapped softly at the bandage around Mirio’s forearm.
“I’m okay,” was his hoarse reply.
The more he did it, the less he had to perform in front of all his classmates, so he made sure to do it as often as necessary.
Lozenges became part of his diet, and he didn’t tell his therapist about them. But a few fell out of his pocket when he sat down on her couch, and she asked him about it. He wasn’t coughing or sniffling. Just a sore throat, he said.
“Again? You had one two weeks ago when I last saw you.”
He quickly popped one in his mouth and sucked quietly on the lemon-honey taste he’d grown accustomed to over the last month. Better than rancid, sour, sharp. It also helped to ease the pressure of needing to speak immediately.
She watched him carefully and his eyes shifted to look out the window and down at the passing cars. He sucked harder, swallowed the medicinal taste, and when it was small enough to comfortably chew, she scratched something down. At that point, he couldn’t hold it back and began to cry.
“Tamaki?”
He looked up at Mirio from his carefully prepared and packed lunch box. His dad had noticed he wasn’t eating as much lately and was worried about his condition, so he made sure to include all of Tamaki’s favorite things as a means of enticing him to have a bite. His therapist wasn’t supposed to say anything, but Tamaki had a feeling she’d mentioned something vague enough to keep the confidentiality. She was worried because his sore throat just wouldn’t go away and his weight had noticeably dropped.
“Yeah? Did you want my tomatoes?” Tamaki asked and picked up a slice, setting it atop Mirio’s rice ball.
Mirio slipped it into his mouth with a grin before plucking up some chicken cutlet and placing it on Tamaki’s seaweed rice.
“Trade!” he said in a way that reminded Tamaki of elementary school.
He forced a smile and picked the piece up with his chopsticks, staring at the sauce stain that had soaked into the fried layer. Mirio was watching him over the rice ball he was shoving into his mouth, so he had no choice but to eat the offering. It was good, and his stomach rolled with appreciation. He hadn’t eaten since the previous day’s breakfast.
“When is the next quirk test?” Tamaki asked and prodded at Mirio’s arm with the eraser on his pencil.
Mirio, who’d fallen asleep while sitting cross-legged on the floor with a textbook on his lap, jerked awake and blinked slowly before wiping at the drool on his chin. Tamaki made a face and handed over a tissue.
“Tomorrow?” he muttered, smacked his lips, then hummed in thought before saying, “No, today is…”
“Friday.”
“—Friday! Then, Monday? It should be Monday.”
Tamaki opened his weekly planner book and added the note.
“Something’s happening tomorrow though,” he murmured.
“We have that assembly,” Mirio answered, sounding more awake. Some drool had dripped onto his textbook and he used the gauze wrapped around his palm to wipe it away.
Tamaki reached for the bowl of crackers and chips. He opened two packets and munched on them as he read another passage from his book. His dad said something about bringing home sushi, and he picked up his phone to let him know that he’d changed his mind and octopus would be okay. Squid, too. Maybe sea urchin if there was any in season.
“I’m glad you’re eating because you didn’t have any lunch today,” Mirio said, nonchalant.
Tamaki chewed slowly, made eye contact, and his eyes began to burn because of course Mirio had noticed. They spent every day together.
On the way to the locker room, Mirio had apologized for getting the aptitude test day wrong, but Tamaki couldn’t hear anything through the growing fuzz in his ears.
Growing.
He was trying to come up with an excuse. He felt like his lunch was coming back up. His knee hurt. He needed water. He was getting over a sudden fever from last night and felt sluggish. But the coach wouldn’t have accepted any of these answers, especially after he’d missed the last two exams.
“You need to try next time,” he’d said with a look of impatience, “I’ll fail you if you don’t.”
If Tamaki couldn’t get through a simple P.E. class, he’d never get into U.A.
“Just show a tentacle or fish scale or even a rice stalk, and you’ll be good to go,” Mirio suggested, one hand on Tamaki’s shoulder as they stepped outside and onto the field with the rest of their class, “We had all that sushi last night.”
He knew.
“I don’t feel good,” Tamaki murmured and tried to turn away, but Mirio’s hand was around his arm, holding him fast.
He knew.
“You’re not going to get through the class like this,” he warned with a low voice that only Tamaki would be able to hear, “If you don’t pass, you don’t go to U.A.”
Tamaki knew this and sometimes the thought was enough to keep him from visiting the toilet one time too many in a single day. He started to shake, and Mirio slipped his hand into his for a quick squeeze before letting go.
“Is your throat still sore?” his therapist asked, pen ready.
Tamaki shook his head. He’d found another way. It didn’t have to be sore if he didn’t have anything to throw up.
“Tama, do you not like papa’s cooking?” his dad asked after opening his lunch box and finding it a little over half full.
Tamaki felt guilty and apologized, but his dad only shook his head.
“We have guests tonight, so I’ll be making a big dinner. You can eat then, okay? You must be stressed at school.”
Tamaki sat in his room for three hours, waiting for the doorbell to ring. Three hours. He counted down, thinking up excuses not to eat. But there was his dad’s concern, the disappointment in his voice. He woke up early every morning just to make Tamaki’s breakfast and lunch and sometimes even prepared dinner to be heated up when he knew he’d come home late.
Tamaki had no choice, and when the door opened for the first guest, he reminded himself that a pro hero didn’t need to make excuses. It was just one meal, and he hadn’t eaten since the day prior. He could do it, at last for his hardworking dad.
He stared at the sizzling fried ginger pork as it was set on the table, and he wondered how he would make it to the bathroom undetected with the number of guests in the house. Old high school friends that his dad had invited because the house was big enough for six more people.
Before he could grab the serving chopsticks, his dad took them and served him a heaping pile, smiling through the steam.
“Eat up!” he said and pushed over a bowl of rice.
Tamaki did as he was told.
His stomach protested after not having had anything for over 24-hours, and he was running to the bathroom when everything spilled out all over the carpet and his clothes. His dad rushed over, alarmed, and he started shouting for an ambulance when he saw the blood on Tamaki’s hand.
“I cut some apples for you, the way you showed me,” Mirio said with pride and set the small lunch box on Tamaki’s blanketed lap. Deep red against the pristine hospital sheet.
“Thanks,” he said and opened it, peering down at the bunny-shaped fruit. There were even colorful toothpicks that Mirio’s dad had probably saved from when they were kids. Either that, or Mirio had gone and bought some.
Mirio took a seat on the bed and picked up a piece, holding it to Tamaki’s mouth.
“The doctor said you could eat solids now, right?” he asked and nudged. All the fingers on his hand were wrapped, and there were a few brown stains dotting the knuckled parts. Tamaki stared at them and thought about chicken cutlet sauce that sat too long on the fried outer shell. Same color.
He looked up into Mirio’s eyes, freezing at the determination, the pleading. He obediently opened his trembling mouth, his breath hitching, his eyes growing wet. Mirio didn’t say anything as the tears rolled, only fed him until a single slice was left.
“For later,” Mirio said and set the bowl down, “I want you to eat it on your own.”
Tamaki nodded and buried his face against Mirio’s neck. When Mirio left a half-hour later, he stared at the darkened, wet patch on his shirt.
“I don’t want to do it anymore,” Tamaki mumbled, “I’ll never make it to U.A. like this. Mirio will hate me.”
His therapist put down her notepad and pen. She was visiting him this time because he didn’t want to miss his appointment and he wasn’t allowed to go home yet.
“Let’s figure out what we can do, then,” she said gently, “I’m sure that if you work hard, Mirio will understand. He always has, right?”
He nodded and took a deep breath, glancing over at the leftover apple slice from that morning. He picked it up and chewed on it slowly. Mirio said he’d drop by after school, and Tamaki looked forward to returning him his dish.
“If you can’t control your eating at home, we can refer you to a residential facility,” the doctor said and passed a brochure to his father. Tamaki looked it over at home and the threat of being away from school for a minimum of six-months and maximum of twelve had him researching proper meal planning that night.
He’d have to put U.A. on hold if he was gone for that long, and he’d never forgive himself for it.
His eating habits took a turn for the better, though he needed to start small since his stomach was still sensitive. His meals were nutritiously balanced, carefully measured, and portioned with large servings and extra helpings that he was encouraged to finish. The garbage was checked at random points of the day when his dad was home, though he seemed reluctant to do so with Tamaki watching, and he had to leave the bathroom door open when he was using it.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” his dad said apologetically, “I’m just worried.”
Tamaki had deceived him for years, so he accepted any mistrust. He deserved it.
The U.A. entrance exam was coming up.
Tamaki heaved, fingers shaking as they weakly gripped the porcelain rim. His stomach turned over, and he shut his eyes, coughing hard until spit dribbled down his chin before falling into the water. His nerves were fraying as the days neared, and try as he might, it was getting harder to keep his stomach calm. His therapist had upped his medication and prescribed a sleeping pill to get him through until morning, but he still woke up in the middle of the night, his mind racing with the thought that he could only blame himself for his failure.
He didn’t want this. Not this time. His quirk would fail him if he couldn’t keep the food down. And then what?
He put a hand over his mouth and breathed deeply, counting in his head the way he’d been taught as a child when his mind began to crumble.
After years and years of practice, his body had learned to empty itself without prompt, especially when his anxiety was peeking. Clean yourself, his mind said, warped by years and years of believing that this was a problem solver, purification, his saving grace.
There was another grinding in his abdomen, and he buried his head in the toilet.
“How was it?” Mirio asked, bouncing on his toes on the way home.
During his test, he’d earned a bruised nose, stiff shoulder, he was limping, and Tamaki was certain he’d need crutches because of his foot. Mirio protested though, because heroes walked these kinds of injuries off.
“I need to thank my dad for all the takoyaki last night,” Tamaki said quietly, staring down at the single bandage wrapped around his elbow.
“Did he make it all himself?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s amazing!”
Tamaki chuckled as Mirio added more pep to his bounce, practically skipping on his injured legs. He winced every few steps, but kept going, and soon he was pulling Tamaki by the hand to join him, and Tamaki couldn’t possibly refuse.
“We’re gonna be heroes!” Mirio announced to the empty streets. He stopped skipping eventually and simply held onto Tamaki’s hand as they continued along to their neighborhood.
“We don’t know that yet,” Tamaki mumbled and moved closer to Mirio’s side, tugging at the hem of his sleeve with his free hand. His palm was beginning to sweat from the heat seeping through Mirio’s bandages, but he continued to hold on.
“Let’s get ice cream to celebrate!” Mirio exclaimed and pulled him into the convenience store they were passing.
“It’s cold,” Tamaki whined and released Mirio’s hand so that he could fix his scarf. He stepped up to the counter to the stewing oden and picked out a few items.
Mirio ordered two meat buns, a piece of fried chicken, and a seasonal pizza bun with pepperoni pieces inside. Tamaki wanted to try it, but not a whole thing for himself. He must’ve stared at it for too long, because as soon as they were outside again, Mirio transferred the bun to his plastic bag.
“Congratulations! We’re gonna be heroes!” Mirio cheered.
They ate at the front of the store, and in exchange for the tasty treat, Tamaki held up a piece of chikuwa to Mirio’s lips.
“Trade,” he said with a smile and Mirio laughed before taking a bite.
The boiled crab was amazing and brought satisfaction somewhere deep that Tamaki hadn’t touched in years. He licked his fingers and picked up another leg, breaking it open and slurping out the meat with a hum of approval. Mirio had trouble with a leg, and Tamaki laughed when it slipped out of his grasp and fell onto the table. He picked it up and cracked it, offering the meat to Mirio who ate it right out of his hand.
“Hold it yourself,” Tamaki grumbled, but Mirio just looked up at him with mischief as he finished it.
Beneath the table, Tamaki felt a nudge at his ankle, and he nudged back.
“You two are eating well,” his dad said from across the table, “Congratulations on getting into U-A, Tama. And Mikkun too! You’ll be heroes!”
Tamaki sighed at the childhood names, but Mirio seemed to grow brighter at the usage. He said his thanks and dug into the pile of crab legs, looking for a big one. His tongue was sticking out in concentration, and Tamaki couldn’t help but think of him as a big kid.
“I’m already drawing up my costume design,” Mirio said enthusiastically, “I’ve even got a name figured out!”
“Oh! Exciting! Show me before you send it in, okay?” Tamaki’s dad replied before turning to his son, “And what about Tama?”
Tamaki thought about the stack of papers crammed into his bedroom desk, his attempt to keep his poor designs from being discovered.
“I have a name, I think. But the costume is getting troublesome,” he mumbled. He needed to do more research.
“You’ll figure it out,” his dad reassured him. He gathered up the pile of eaten legs and got up to toss them out so there’d be more room on the table. “I’ll get dessert!”
Tamaki felt another nudge at his ankle, and then Mirio handed him a leg. He took it and smiled at the pleased look he received.
“Break it for me?” Mirio asked, “My wrist is still hurting from yesterday’s test.”
Tamaki thought about the quirk exam, the last one of their final year in middle school. He’d passed it easily after eating a hearty meal at breakfast and lunch, and even though the applause and cheers made him want to hide in a locker, there was still a sense of pride he could hold onto after realizing he’d made it to the end.
“Of all the things you can’t break, it’s a crab leg,” he teased and gripped it tightly before snapping it clean.