Archive of Our Own

MONOCHROME

Akihabara, like most things in Tokyo, is nothing short of a paradise at night. It stands tall above the clouds, above the bustle of businessmen that weave between the pavement and the street, and glows like a beacon in the darkness.

Thousands upon thousands of billboards, shining red and gold in bright neon, and not one of the people below pay attention. They don’t care whose face beams at them, pixelated and everlasting; All Might is old news. Endeavor and Hawks too. 

It’s strange, Suneater thinks, because he remembers when people would stop and take photos of every board they saw. He remembers the glee in their eyes, their excited chatter as he walked among them to find a takoyaki stall. That was nearly a decade ago—times have changed now. Akihabara is concrete proof of it. 

Suneater folds his legs to his chest and watches, contented at how he can see everyone but no one can see him. There’s a certain kind of inexplicable fascination with it, and he knows he can sit here for hours. He’s done it before.

But he can’t, not tonight. He has his orders, has his bed, and now he must lie in it. 

The next wave of people emerge onto the street from the train line like a cloud of grey dust. He keeps a mental tally of all their faces, watching over the top of his knees, but none of them are who he’s looking for. 

The chewing on his back teeth nears anxious by the second, and though Suneater knows his anxiety worsens when he waits, it’s harder knowing he can’t relieve it. He has to sit here, has to sit still, and there’s nothing more horrible than the unknown. He can’t stand it.

And then, the flicker of a face. The catch of bright blue hair under the glare of pink turning purple. It’s barely a dart between the traffic, but Suneater spots it because it’s what he’s been looking for for three hours now, and his legs cramp as he stands.

From beneath his cloak his wings shake out, feathered and primed against the upward heave of the wind. It takes a moment, but then they stretch and he descends, slipping past the billboards into the dark alley below, speckled with pixelated rainbows and the overdraft of distant rain. It drips down the piping and gutters as he lands in a crouch and folds his wings neatly again. 

The blue hair is at the entrance to the alleyway, dusted in that same multicoloured garnish, looking at him with a mixture of contempt and distaste. He comes further inside.

“What do you want?” 

Suneater swallows. He hates it when people start like that.

“I need to speak with you,” he says, voice catching on his anxiety, and stands. 

The stranger—more acquaintance—looks at him with pale eyes; untrusting, indecisive. He comes closer still. “What? You’re wasting my time. I have other duties to attend to before some rookie—”

His words close off in a choke. 

I’m sorry, Suneater wants to say, but that defeats his purpose, the point of this all. He can’t have remorse for this, for these people, and tightens the tentacles around his throat instead. 

Besides, it’s not like he’ll kill him.

“So what you’re insinuating is this new Villain—Vigilante, anti-Hero, whatever you’d prefer—is a cannibal?”

“No, I’m not, please don’t take the words out of my mouth. I’m telling you that this new Villain has the potential to be a cannibal and can become one if we don’t stop him.”

“But what evidence do you have? There’s video footage, photographs, and none of them show him consuming a human or anything along those—”

“I just said —”

— White noise.

All of it’s white noise, like voices through a television screen. The outline of words and no meaning, echoes of humming. Each sentence bleeds into the next, washes over the table and around the room like the lap of the ocean against the beach on a warm summer's day.

A warm summer's day. Thousands upon thousands of pebbles and crabs littering the sand where he’d hop between the rocks with a net and a bucket. Plasters on knees and elbows and a nose—Tamaki had one on his nose that day. He’d fallen on the rocks and gotten a nosebleed. He hadn’t cried.

Tamaki never cries when he’s hurt.

The pencil rolls back languidly and is flicked again, spinning to the tip of the table and spinning back faster. It’s left graphite marks on the page—the abundance of doodles and random words—and the marks make no difference. It’s all illegible.

Someone is shouting, others are shouting back, all blended and swirled like a maelstrom of colour. If voices were colour, what would theirs be? Red for anger? Blue for sadness, for frustration? Green for—

“—ta?”

—envy?

“To—ta—?”

Perhaps yellow, like—

“Togata.”

“Huh?”

The pencil rolls into his fingers with practised ease, and it’s only then that Mirio realises the booming voices of bright reds and blues and greens has dissolved. The eyes at the table are on him. 

“I—” A snap of someone’s pen lid and the remnants of daydreams smear and smudge. Mirio clears his throat and ducks his head to scribble on his paper pointlessly. “I’m sorry—please, continue.”

“That’s all and well, Mister Togata, but do you realise the enormity of the crisis we’re in? With a new contraband of Villains built on the ideologies we’ve been trying to quash for years? We can’t afford daydreamers.”

The Hero Board are always the cruellest. They spare no expense in their judgement and tempers. Even as Mirio lifts his eyes he feels it, the law of their words, the ice in her eyes as the Board Leader fixes him with her owlish stare. It’s rhetoric, so he says nothing.

“As I was saying,” she continues, breaking that uneven gaze to pass over the rest of the Heroes at the table. “The Villain has been seen in several locations across Shinjuku, Akihabara, and Ikebukuro. I said this before—” A glare at another board member, a stout man with fire in his eyes, “—but his quirk is unknown to us. We’ve theorised that it works much the same as a chimera; he can turn into animals, or parts of animals, via consumption or contact. ”

She leans forward, palms resting on the smoothly layered tabletop, and looks at each of them. “As representatives of our best agencies—as our aspiring Heroes—we need you to find him. Are you familiar with the new-age Villain Stain?” 

A murmur of agreement. “Good, then you’ll know how much his ideology influenced an entire generation. Even the League of Villains didn’t have such a monumental impact. We have reason to believe this chimera intends to spread the ideology further to heights we never could have anticipated, and if— if he finds it in him to resort to cannibalism, he’s even more dangerous. You need to stamp this out, immediately.”

She leans back with finality lacing her voice, no room for argument. A nod at the board members, a bow to the Heroes, and then they are dismissed with the careless flick of her hand. 

Green. She’d be green.

“Hey.” 

The soft bump of a fist against his shoulder, and that same green paints Mirio’s peripheral.  

Midoriya sits on the table, hands in his lap and toes grazing the floor. His notebook—old and tattered from years of wear—is tucked between his fingers. “Is everything okay?”

For a second, Mirio just blinks at him, then the haze evaporates. He’s back to the office, the skyscraper, the bustle of life through the glass windows and neon signs, and each delicately packaged memory is boxed away again. Mirio grins.

“Of course! Each scrap of information has been filed accordingly.” He picks up his notepad and brushes a thumb through the pages, and the tiny smiley-face animation in the corner. “See? Convenient, right?”

Midoriya rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “That’s not what I mean. I mean is everything okay with you? You’ve been, uh—” 

The skittishness in his expression, beneath that green mask and row of white teeth, says it all. “—Off?”

“Off?”

“Off. Distracted. Is it the Chimera case?”

“Is that its official name?”

“I believe so, ye—” Midoriya’s eyes sharpen. “Stop changing the subject! I’m asking you a question. An important question.”

Mirio clicks his tongue. It used to be easy when he was younger—a kid still vibrant with life and imagination—but he’s much sharper now. Nothing gets by Midoriya anymore.

“I’m fine!” He answers again, but neither of them believe him. He’s distracted in the worst way possible and at such a crucial time, and Midoriya looks like he wants to argue with him.

But he doesn’t. His mouth snaps shut and he scratches his cheek beneath his mask as if contemplating something. His smile is kind when his eyes draw back. “Want to get lunch? It’s been a while since we’ve been able to do that. I kinda miss it.” 

The sheepishness has the uncertain air disappearing in a heartbeat, and Mirio laughs heartily as he slides his chair back and slaps his hand to Midoriya’s shoulder. “Absolutely! It’s been a while, young Midoriya.”

“Don’t,” he scoffs. “That’s reserved for All Might.”

“And not for me, young Midoriya?”

“ Definitely not.”

Midoriya slides off the table and onto the ground, where he stands at only a few inches shorter than Mirio, and grins up at him through his curls. “There’s a new yakitori stand that opened up a few streets over. I saw it on the way here. What does your stomach tell you?”

“I think it’s going with something like that sounds delightful and feed me now , so really, my stomach has no—”

“Togata!”

They’re halfway across the room, and yet his name rings out like an echo through an empty street. Mirio’s heart picks up as one of the younger board members—a bright-eyed man named Ritsu—jogs over and bows.

“Sorry to disrupt you, but we’d like to hold you back for a few minutes if you don’t mind!”

Thump, thump, thump.

“Oh,” Midoriya looks to him and shrugs. “I can wait for you outside?”

Thump, thump, thump.

“Sure!” Mirio hears the crack in his voice before he speaks, cool tendrils sweeping down his spine in a pit of everlasting dread. “I’ll see you in a minute, bean sprout.”

The walk back feels like a death sentence, a man being led to the guillotine, and the Board Leader’s eyes are as cruel as the sharp curve of the blade. She gestures for him to sit in a spare chair and, with some reluctance, he does.

“Togata,” she starts, and dread seeps through him again. “Were you paying attention enough to know how important this case is?”

He nods.

“Good. Then you’ve noticed the similarities between this Chimera and someone we lost a few months ago.” 

Thump, thump, thump.

“So, tell me, Mister Togata.” 

She eyes him evenly before dropping into the chair opposite him, crossing her legs at the knee and her arms at her chest. She’d planned this from the beginning.

“What do you remember of Amajiki Tamaki?”

Once, Mirio had seen the world in monochrome.

It’d been lifeless; the same shade of grey in a monotonous cycle. There was never any differentiation, no matter how many people bathed in its light and life, no matter how many spoke of deep fluorescents; to Mirio, they’d all been the same. He’d never understood why his world was rough and dark, like a universe that existed within the confines of an unfinished painting, and he’d never understood why he hated it every time he opened his eyes. 

His normalcy had been accented vinyl in a world everlasting. Then he met Tamaki.

The door shuts behind him, and the light from the hallway dissolves into black. Somewhere, there’s the ticking of a clock, the distant horns from the traffic outside, and the apartment sits glittering in pixelation from the signs shining through the open window. 

Mirio’s no stranger to coming home to an open window. There’s only one time it's ever like that.

He doesn’t bother switching on the lights as he shucks off his shoes and coat, leaving his keys on a counter that he passes through muscle memory alone. His feet take him to the bathroom at the other end of the apartment, to the quiet patter of water on tile on the other side of the door, and the faint light that leaks over the carpet in buttery yellow. 

For a moment, he just stares. Mirio knows what he’ll find on the other side, because it’s always been like this: the lights off, the window open, the shower on—a vicious cycle that he wouldn’t have any other way. He’s like a moth drawn to a flame, coming back again and again and again.

He opens the door and pulls back the shower curtain to turn off the water. Tamaki, curled in a ball with his face pressed to his knees, doesn’t move.

“Hey.” 

Mirio crouches to rest his forearms on the lip of the tub, ignoring that voice in him begging to run, to hide. “Do you want food?”

He says nothing.

“A drink?”

Still nothing.

“Want me to leave?”

It takes a moment, but the tension relaxes from Tamaki’s shoulders in a deep sigh. He unfurls enough to lift his head, hair plastered to his skin, and stares at Mirio. His eyes are tired, dulled to midnight blue, and it takes all of Mirio’s willpower to stare him back. 

“Tea.” Tamaki’s voice is quiet like a secret, a prayer. “Green.”

Mirio leaves a towel on the toilet lid before he retreats to the kitchen, already sweating through his clothes, head spinning. He remembers the days when speaking to Tamaki didn’t leave such a sour, bitter taste in his mouth; founded on lies and open windows at night. He remembers the days he swore he’d always be truthful, that he’d protect anyone at all costs and bring down the Villains—the bad guys—but that’s as broken as his thoughts. Time changes just like the cities through the generations; the spark of a new millennia.

Tamaki is no different.

He’s pouring hot water when Tamaki joins him, stuffed into one of his favourite hoodies and leggings, barefoot. His hair is wet, dripping down his cheeks and darkening the purple fabric, but he doesn’t seem to notice, or care. He just takes his tea and sips. 

Mirio can’t stand it, staying still, this silence. He takes a spare towel on the back of a chair and jumps on the counter, pulling Tamaki to him by his feet. Tamaki keeps his back to him, still drinking, as he rubs at his hair; watching the black turn a deep, dark blue like his eyes as he runs the strands between his fingers. It’s calming: soothing his nerves, the frantic beat of his heart, the sourness on his tongue.

“What happened today?”

“They were talking about the Chimera case.”

“Any joy?”

He hesitates. “No.”

Yet another unending cycle, all this pretence. It’s like parading around a room and pretending there’s no one else there.

Tamaki sets down his tea and leans back into Mirio, and he abandons the towel to wrap his arms around his chest. It isn’t long before he feels Tamaki’s shoulders shake, racked with sobs that he never admits to aloud, and Mirio can only press his face into him and sigh.

What does he remember of Amajiki Tamaki? Everything there is to remember, he always has. How he loves octopus, how he spent a year learning to grow functioning wings, how, when he was little, he used to eat sand out of the sandbox. 

“They‘re going to figure it out, aren’t they?” 

Tamaki’s voice never rises above a whisper, but he may as well have shouted. Mirio feels sick. 

“I don’t know. Maybe.” 

“What are you going to do?”

He can’t help the bitter laugh that works its way up. Of everything, everyone, Tamaki still asks about him. “I can cover your tracks if you want to escape.”

Tamaki looks out the window, towards the neon signs that flicker, the posters running towards rainbows. He swallows. “You’ve done that for two years.” 

“I’m not ready.” Mirio’s arms tighten. “You know I’m not. I can’t lose you—not yet.”

Tamaki inhales, and pats his arm. “I’ll be more careful, I promise.” He pauses for a second, and lets go of Mirio again. “One day you won’t be able to cover me anymore.”

“I know.”

What else does he remember of Amajiki Tamaki? That he’s the Chimera they’re chasing, that each day Mirio feels some new form of guilt that he’s harbouring a Villain, a Vigilante; whatever they want to call him. He still remembers the look in the Board Leader’s eyes when she asked about the similarities in their quirks, asked about the disappearance of his best friend when, in reality, he’d gone nowhere at all.

He also remembers that Tamaki has dimples on his lower back, that he has freckles along his collarbone, and that he never, ever cries when he’s hurt.

TWO YEARS AGO

In the nineteen years that Tamaki has known Mirio, they’ve only fought once. 

They’ve always been on the same page. Ever since they were children, toddlers with figurines and dreams of the future, it’s always been that way. Even when Mirio took up those bad habits in Middle School, cigarettes behind the gym and black eyes, Tamaki stood by his side and patched him up again.

The damage done by the Shie Hassaikai was irreversible, and beside Tamaki’s fractured jaw and eye that didn’t quite focus, there started a jagged line. Mirio had been beside himself then, hadn’t been the same, and for the first time in all those nineteen years he’d scared Tamaki. 

The screams in the night, the tears, the spouts of anger—he knew what it was, the doctors had explained it to him thoroughly. He’d sat there with Mirio listening like Mirio had sat there with him several years before, and though the medication was the same, the circumstances were different. Their friendship had fractured then, and even though it was three years ago now, the cracks are still prevalent. 

The aftermath was where it started, where monochrome began bleeding into his life again. It creeps into the spots of colour more every day.

It’s one of the nights that Mirio’s pounding heart and wet eyes wakes him up with a start; dripping sweat and wild with fear, with the memory of gunshots and the slice of flesh. He grips the sheets hard enough that his palms sting with the weight of ten crescent cuts, invisible hands tightening around his throat. 

For a second, there’s silence as he breathes hard, and then his hands fly to his hair and he screams.

Whether he’d sensed the garbled wail or his presence upon awakening he isn’t sure, but his door flies open a second later. Tamaki’s hands are prying his grip open, the hush of a voice and the swish of silken fabric as his best friend, still in Suneater’s white and purple and black, sits at his side and kisses his shoulder.

“Mirio, Mirio—it’s okay, I’m here. Okay? I’m here. Deep breaths, my hand—take my hand.”

He laces their fingers together and it helps. It’s a touch that grounds, that pulls them together, and slowly the world comes back into a solitary focus. He knows he’s crying when his gaze flicks to Tamaki, and Tamaki sighs.

“Nightmares?”

Mirio just swallows and finally releases his grip. Tamaki’s hand is pink and red from his iron fingers, but he doesn’t mention it. For a few more minutes, they sit in a comfortable silence—Tamaki’s hand swiping the length of his bicep, Mirio controlling his trembling. 

“Sorry,” is the first thing that he says. “Did I wake you up?”

Tamaki shakes his head. “No. I just got back.”

Sometimes, Tamaki was tired enough that he fell asleep in his Hero outfit, so it’s difficult to decide if it’s a white lie. He never admits to these things, no matter how trivial they are. Tamaki never blames him for those sleepless nights, or the pink stain on his palm.

Mirio sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. He’s not going to get back to sleep, so he may as well get up.

After some shifting and muttering, they sip tea at the kotatsu; coddled in warmth from the dregs of winter that seep through every crevice and crack. It’s comfortable and familiar, something they’ve done for years, but it doesn’t make things any better. Mirio and Tamaki are still both exhausted, and Tamaki has just gotten back from work. Mirio tries to push down his guilt.

“How’s the night shift?” He asks, clawing at a sense of normalcy to calm himself. Tamaki takes the bait.

“It’s good. I prefer it, I think. It’s quieter. I like the quiet.”

I don’t like people . Mirio understands. “Think you might take it up permanently?”

“Hopefully, if Fatgum’s happy with it.”

Really, it would be a trade. Tamaki’s anxiety at the sacrifice of his social interactions. He knows Fatgum isn’t going to be satisfied with the imbalance, but if it works, so be it. That attitude had gotten Mirio through the last three years.

This time the silence is comfortable, settled in understanding as the sun rises. They watch it through the window, the way the yellow and orange paints and melts the buildings that glisten under bright blue, and for the first time in a while, Mirio appreciates the colours. He basks in the warmth on his face, and he can forget about the black and white, if just for a little while. 

“Can I talk to you?”

Tamaki’s voice is quiet, thoughtful, and Mirio sets down his tea. “You don’t need to ask.”

“Yesterday, I—” His voice catches and his eyes narrow, fixed on the window and the bright sunrise. Mirio waits patiently, until Tamaki shudders and sets down his tea. “I met a Vigilante.”

Not uncommon, but rare to mention it.

“I don’t know his name,” he continues, tracing the rim of his mug. “He was old. Older than the ones I’ve met. He didn’t want to fight.”

“You talked to him,” Mirio guesses, leaning his chin on his palm. Despite his attempts at keeping his face neutral, he knows some of the disdain seeps through. Tamaki glances at him.

“Yeah.” 

“What happened?”

“He—” 

Another hesitation, and he sees Tamaki’s eyes flitter between regret and self-deprecation that has Mirio reaching across the table and catching his hand gently. “I shouldn’t have. It was a bad idea.”

Mirio can understand it, because getting involved with Villains and Vigilantes is never a good idea. It led to messy situations and a Hero Board that could revoke your license in a heartbeat. 

“What happened?” He presses again, and Tamaki grips his hand.

“We talked and he told me why he became a Vigilante.” 

This time, he meets Mirio’s eyes. “He was part of a drug trade. He was used by Villains, and when Heroes came by they were paid to be quiet. They stood by and watched for money, and he wanted to be the Hero that those Heroes weren’t.”

There’s something in Tamaki’s eyes that he hasn’t seen before; morbidness, a quiet fascination and, above all, a glimmer of unsettlement. What that Vigilante had said—whatever story he had fabricated—is playing on Tamaki’s mind like a broken record. Mirio can’t deny his own hesitation for a fraction of a second, but then he shakes his head.

“He probably said that just to get away. Did you end up capturing him?”

“No.”

Mirio brings his hand to his mouth and kisses the back of it softly. “Don’t sweat it, alright? If there was some big ploy the Hero Board would be on it. Someone would have let something slip.”

Tamaki watches the way his lips press to his skin, and he closes his eyes on an exhale. He looks exhausted despite everything—forcing himself to stay awake for Mirio’s purpose and Mirio’s purpose only. 

“Maybe.”

“Maybe you should go to bed,” Mirio says with the ghost of a smile, kissing Tamaki’s hand one last time before leading him back to the bedroom.

When Mirio reaches over Tamaki, careful not to jostle him awake as he takes his phone and plugs it into a cable to charge, he notices that there’s an open article on the home screen. An old case from years ago about the capture of Stain, the new-age Villain.

Despite Mirio’s heart jumping and quickening and hoping that Tamaki had forgotten about it, he pretends he doesn’t see it and goes for a jog to clear his head instead. 

>> I need help. 

Mirio stares at the text lighting up his screen like it’s threatening him. From Tamaki, sent five minutes ago, highlighted in muted green and yellow from the sun swaying over the tips of the trees.

He’s panting hard despite being frozen, soaked with his hair slicked back over his forehead; a figment of himself, a simple shadow. It’s an out of body experience because Tamaki doesn’t cry when he’s hurt, he doesn’t ask for help. He’s stubborn enough to search for a solution on his own, anxious enough to be independent. 

Yet there sits the message, clear as day. Neon against the sunlight.

He doesn’t wait to catch his breath back; he takes off again like he doesn’t need oxygen at all. He’s not sure if he breathes in the sprint back to their apartment, he probably didn’t, but he doesn’t care—he can’t care. All he can focus on is his panic, the thousand scenarios that Tamaki could be in, the thousand scenarios where Mirio doesn’t get back in time, that he’s a little bit too late. 

“Tamaki?” He calls, frantic, as soon as he fumbles with the lock, head whipping back and forth. Is he here? Did he jump the gun—should he have messaged him back? 

A breeze brushes by, and he follows the trail of paper strewn across the floor to the open window, then the muddy footprints that creep to the hallway. Mirio’s heart is hammering as he clenches his fists, throat tight, and follows them to the bathroom door. The water is running, he can hear it thudding against the ceramic, and with one last look behind him, he flings it open.

He sees Tamaki immediately, stripped to his briefs with his head on his knees, shower pounding against his skin. And there, swirling in the bathtub and splattered across the clothes pooled on the floor, is blood. Blood .

Panicking won’t help—if Tamaki is panicking, he’ll panic him more. Despite the trembling in his hands, despite the bile in his throat, he pushes past it and reaches over Tamaki to turn off the water. He looks down at him, checking him over from his ears to his shoulders to his toes, but he can’t find the source of the bleeding, the crimson stains.

He crouches, and places a gentle hand on Tamaki’s knee. 

“Tamaki, I need you to show me where you’re bleeding from. I’m here—nothing can hurt you, I just need you to—”

“It’s not—” He chokes. “It’s not mine.”

“What?” 

He heard it, but it doesn’t register. He knows what Tamaki said but he can’t comprehend, can’t understand. “What do you mean? Whose is it?”

Tamaki doesn’t respond at first, and then his head lifts. His eyes are raw, sparkling blue with tears, and he exhales shakily. “I hurt someone.”

Mirio feels like vomiting; he can’t be certain he won’t. Of all the things Tamaki could have asked him for help with, of everything in the world, why did it have to be this? What reason did he have, what did he do, what— what—

“Why?” 

It’s the only question he can formulate, and even then his voice trembles like he’s being shaken. 

“I—” Tamaki chews at his bottom lip, eyes wide and unseeing, and he curls into himself tighter. His nails dig into his skin, but Mirio can’t find the willpower to pull him away, can’t find it in him to touch him. “There was a Hero. He was screaming at a girl. He went to hit her, and I—”

A fresh wave of tears stream down his cheeks, and his lower lip quivers as he speaks. “I attacked him. I hurt him. It was like a switch flipped and I—I’ve never, I don’t know how—”

“Is he alive?” 

“I don’t know.” Tamaki’s gaze drops ruefully, and Mirio feels sick all over again. “I don’t know, Mirio.” 

Mirio knows what he should do. He knows he should alert the authorities, but if he does, Tamaki would—

He can see it already, crowded in a courtroom. His license taken away, Tamaki small against the hardened criminals. If he’d killed him, if he’d killed him, the consequences would be so much worse. It’s an image Mirio can’t get out of his head, and he knows that if Tamaki was taken away, he’d never recover. He wouldn’t be able to.

Mirio slicks his hair over his head, damp from sweat and shower water. He knows what he should do, and he won’t do it.

“Okay.” 

He stands, looks at the clothes, and swallows thickly. This is wrong, but the alternative is worse. “Okay, okay. Did the girl see you?”

“I don’t think so,” Tamaki whispers, lifting his head to watch Mirio. He’s silent for a second. “Are you going to tell the police?”

Mirio’s eyes close briefly, then he looks back over his shoulder with a thin expression. “No.”

“You should,” he says. “I can’t do this to you, I can’t—”

“I won’t lose you,” Mirio replies, voice unlike his own, and stumbles to take off his own shirt. He’s too hot, too sticky, and the cold air makes it easier to think. “We can figure it out. You can—”

There’s only one solution to this that will keep him safe, completely safe, and he sighs.

“You’ll have to hide.”

“I’ll have to quit being a Hero,” Tamaki finishes, and Mirio can only manage a stiff nod. There’s barely a hesitation before Tamaki nods back. 

This time, he drops his gaze. “I’ve been—wondering. About being a Hero. Weeks now. I don’t think—” He sucks in a breath. “I don’t think it’s for me after all.”

Mirio’s heart sinks to his stomach. He turns away as his eyes water because this— this —isn’t how it’s meant to be. They were meant to be the greatest Heroes, and here they are, nineteen years later, no closer to that dream than when they finished UA. First Mirio’s quirk, now this. It was doomed from the start.

As he goes to walk away, he hears Tamaki mutter—

“Stain was right, not all Heroes deserve to be Heroes.”

Ah. So this is what it‘s about; Stain and his ideologies. All from that Vigilante. 

Mirio knows he should be angry, but all he feels is numbness. His reluctance to let Tamaki go burns more than his anger towards everything, and he can’t think—he can’t understand—

But what now? 

PRESENT DAY

“Hey, it’s not often we get to work together!” Hadou says cheerfully, knocking her shoulder into Mirio’s side with playful friendliness. “You always work with Deku! Do you not like me?”

Mirio finishes tying his cape and looks down at her with a grin. Even after seven years, she hasn’t changed a bit, even down to the tips of her electric blue hair. “Lovely Hadou, I would never dream of not liking you.”

Hadou beams at him and pulls up her smartphone, opening up a random window and tapping the screen with perfectly manicured nails. “We have our agenda for today! There are some of those ghastly thugs messing around in Ikebukuro that our Agencies want us to deal with. How strange! I thought they’d give us something more interesting.”

“A quiet patrol is usually a good sign!” Mirio casts a glance towards the train station and the glass front that encases it. The neon signs shine and glisten, though they aren’t as brilliant in the day as they are at night. “We’ll take the train. That way we can stick to this area.”

“Ryuukyu won’t mind!” Hadou chirps, but trots past him anyway with a skip in her step. How she managed it day in and out is always a cause for fascination. “What about your boss?”

“Uh, I’m sure he won’t either.” 

Mirio’s boss is long since gone; he and Midoriya and a handful of other Heroes are working for the Hero Board now. They’ll be chewed up and spat out again to find a new nesting place as soon as it’s over, and still, no Agency feels quite right. Not since Sir Nighteye. 

The Hero Board and their contacts are a strict secret, a task force built on lies, and Mirio hates it like he hates nothing else. Lying never leads to good things, but he can’t afford to lose his job because of a slip of the tongue, so lying will have to do.

The train ride is nice; normal and familiar. Hadou talks even if no one’s listening, and with the occasional reassurance she chats about everything and anything that springs to mind. The weather, the Heroes, the new bistro opening outside Ryuukyu’s Agency, the influence of Stain’s ideology—

“What?”

“Huh?” Hadou blinks at him, slipping her card back into a compartment as they pass through the barrier into Ikebukuro. “Did you forget something?”

“No, no—what did you say?” 

Mirio stares at her, hard. Hadou may have the externalities of an air-head, but underneath hid a calculating siren. She picked up gossip and rumours like she picked up dresses from expensive stores on a debit card. 

“Oh! Stain, right? Right?” She taps a slender finger to her lips and picks the street that curves to the left. “It’s been a rumour among a lot of Villains lately. I heard it from Ochako!” 

She peeks to the side, and then cups her hand around her lips like it’s the world’s biggest secret. “There’s been talk of underground goings-on with the Hero Board.”

Of course there have. A task force never went unnoticed among the higher-league Villains, especially with the emergence of the Chimera— Tamaki . He sighs.

“Well, that won't do any good for their reputation,” he says, but Hadou’s attention is already wavering to the street signs. Mirio takes the opportunity to drop the subject immediately.

They follow the signs to the back end of Ikebukuro, where even the stray cats won’t go. Hadou keeps at her idle chatter and Mirio listens with half interest, making note of the people and their faces and interests. It’s their job as Heroes to stay attentive, and for someone like Mirio, he has to work extra hard to regain that reputation. Five years on and Chisaki’s curse follows him like the plague.

“Any news from Amajiki?” Hadou asks suddenly, and Mirio winces.

“Nope, nothing.”

“Shame! Maybe he’s decided to go underground.” She meets Mirio’s eyes and smiles. “I’m sure he’s fine!”

Ah, sweet Hadou. Nothing ever quite escaped her, and though Mirio forces a smile back, he knows it isn’t convincing. She can be as sharp as steel and, as the third one of their little trio, it’s unsurprising. For two years she’s been asking the same question and for two years Mirio’s replied with the same thing. She never pushes further. 

Hadou knows Mirio’s hiding something, and he’s thankful it’s her and not anyone else.

“I hope he’s eating well,” she says absently. “I miss it when you and he used to come over for lunch. We had karaage last time, remember? It was all soft and soggy and oily.”

Mirio does remember, and he remembers it fondly. It’s the first time Tamaki grew wings with the intent of flying.

Hadou opens her mouth again, but a small gaggle of awestruck children stop them and demand autographs. By the time they’re ushered along with selfies and signatures, the topic has evaporated back to the task at hand; the rogue Villains.

She taps at her phone again. “My sources say it’s the alleyway two up from here! Oh—we’re going to have company!” 

“Company?” Mirio swallows his nervousness, because if they weren’t part of the task force and these Villains happened to bring up the Chimera, there would be more explaining to do.

But then, a little way away, Mirio spots who it is and grins.

“Located,” he tells Hadou, and in a second they’re jogging over to where Ground Zero, hidden beneath a scowl, is being accosted by the very same small children who’d stopped them not a few minutes before.

“Can you really explode things?” 

“Why is your hair so spiky?”

“Why do you smell like syrup?”

“Well, if it isn’t the number two!” Mirio laughs, slinging an arm around a clearly annoyed Bakugou, and grins even wider when he’s pushed off with a snarl.

“Get off, I’ve had enough damn hands on me today.”

He’ll never change, though if Hadou’s information is right, the Hero Board had gotten wind of the rumours. Sending two task force members when only one’s needed is for damage control. And awkward questions.

By the time the children and several other fans leave, Hadou has their route set out. It’s a patrol in a zig zag around the sparsely populated areas, where the Vigilantes and Villains blended into the shadows. There isn't any information on where and when and how many people would be there and, God, does Mirio hope that three Heroes are enough.

“Those clowns are strutting about in daylight?” Bakugou clicks his tongue. “Bastards are getting confident.”

“Stain’s ideology,” Hadou adds helpfully. “They believe they’re doing it for a good cause, but really, they’re not! You didn’t know that, right? Huh?”

Bakugou scowls at one of the alleyways. “They think they own the world.”

Maybe they would someday, Mirio thinks, especially if all this Chimera and Stain talk is true. If enough Vigilantes and Villains decide to pursue that cause, decide to spread the ideology to politicians and Governments and the media across the world, who’s to say Heroes will be needed? The future is never clear, like a rough plan through frosted glass, and it frightens him.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Mirio has never particularly liked Bakugou—he’s too brash for him, too assertive—but he can appreciate his attitude at times like this. He can respect people who pull him from his own mind unintentionally, before his anxiety gets the better of him, and he follows him willingly with Hadou musing their directions.

“Any idea about how many there are?” Bakugou asks gruffly, not bothering to turn his head, and Mirio hums.

“There’s pretty much no information other than a group of irregular Villains,” he tells him. “I’m not sure if we can even call them Villains. They're just—” An aborted gesture. “Unruly thugs.”

“There’s gotta be some reason they send three pros.” Bakugou glances at Mirio over his shoulder. “I’ve got better things to do with my time, like kicking the ass of actual Villains.”

There’s a reason they sent two task force members.

“Well!” Hadou chirps, standing on her tiptoes to sling her arms around Mirio and Bakugou’s shoulders, ignoring the grunt of exasperation. “At least we’re together! Right?”

“Right!” Mirio agrees with a half-hearted laugh, and lets her go ahead to pick their next direction. 

“There’s been rumours of the Hero Board doing underground stuff,” he says as soon as he’s sure she’s far away enough. “Stain’s ideology is spreading. I think we should be careful and prepare for the worst.”

Bakugou scoffs. “Of fucking course there’s rumours, no way are they subtle. Chimera?”

“I don’t know about that, but I’m sure someone’s made the connection.”

“Great.” He toes at a bottle top on the pavement, watching it clink and hit the adjacent wall. “Their fault, they can deal with it. Focus on what we’ve got now.” 

It doesn’t take long to find their targets; it’s a gang of six or seven, many with mutant quirks and guns. It takes less than ten minutes to tackle them and wait around for the cops and, yet again, Mirio’s left wondering why it needed three pro Heroes to counter them. He could easily have done it by himself.

“This is lame,” Bakugou spits, angrily kicking at the wall with a steel-toed boot. “What the hell are they thinking? They’re really running out of ideas for patrols, aren’t they?”

“Maybe they were expecting more!” Hadou tells him, sitting on one of the thugs with her legs crossed at the ankle, tapping idly at her phone. “Or they overestimated.”

Mirio clicks his tongue. He isn’t so convinced. 

“Screw this.” 

Bakugou grabs one of them closest to him, pulling him up by the collar until their noses are pressed together. “What the fuck did you do to piss them off? Why are they so bothered about you?”

He—a younger one, not much older than fifteen or sixteen—splutters, but doesn’t give an answer. Bakugou’s lips tear back in a snarl, but then—

“You were baited, fuckin’ idiots.”

Mirio and Bakugou’s eyes snap around to the thug beneath Hadou, scowling just as venomously. Bakugou drops the one in his grip and stomps over to the speaker instead, dropping into a low crouch.

“What?”

“You were tipped off, we were goddamn sold to you.” 

“What?”

“You stupid?” He snaps, and Bakugou hisses at him. 

“Start talking, or I’ll blow your ass up so bad you won’t be sitting for a year.”

He looks reluctant, but then his jaw clenches. “He called us, the Chimera. Stain’s shit, right? He sold us out.” 

And then, a toothy smile. “You’re a step further from catching him, dumbass puppies.”

What the hell is Tamaki thinking? 

“Fuck.” 

Bakugou shoves the thug back and gets to his feet, grinding his teeth viciously before slamming a fist into a brick wall. Even with a small force of his quirk behind it, it leaves a crater. “ Fuck! Stupid motherfucking fuck—”

“What’s going on?” 

Mirio meets Hadou’s eyes and sees the intrigue sparkling in the ocean. “Chimera?”

“I—” 

It’s like his tongue’s glued to the roof of his mouth; his anxiety carving and cutting deep in his chest. Tamaki said he’d be careful, Tamaki said that this wouldn’t happen—he lied. He lied . What is he doing? 

Bakugou is still angry even when the police arrive, and the second the gang is stuffed into the police cars and secured by quirk-nullifying cuffs, Bakugou whips around to him.

“Hero Board. Now.” 

The last place that Mirio wants to go is the Hero Offices, where his worry sits in a constant cloud around his shoulders. He’s itching to go home, to text Tamaki and demand an answer, but it will be too suspicious. Far too suspicious.

So, he nods instead and follows Bakugou through the streets, ignoring the churning of his stomach and the frantic hammering of his heart.

The Hero Board call a meeting immediately.

It’s clear from the Board Leader’s face that they’d suspected the rumours, that they’d caught wind, and that green shines through as sour as a lime. Her annoyance fills the room like thick tension, and the other Board Members—even Ritsu—fidget and cower under it. The only person who doesn’t seem affected is Bakugou from the way he sits spread out, arms crossed. He meets her gaze coolly.

Most of the Heroes arrive within the hour—some nearby, some on their day off—but a good quarter of the Heroes are unable to come. The Leader simply snaps that they’ll hold another meeting to update them, but Mirio can only focus on how glad he was that Midoriya’s here, by his side.

“So.” 

Her voice is like steel, like a guillotine blade, and she meets the eyes of everyone in the room in a heartbeat. “I’ve called you here because there is a serious, serious matter.”

She leans her forearms on the table, eagle-eyed, and even from across the room, Mirio can see the grind of her teeth. “Somehow, it’s been leaked that the Hero Board is working underground, and many are beginning to make the link between us and the Chimera. This is unacceptable.”

Her eyes narrow to a squint. “I’d like to remind you all that your licenses are in our hands and, if any of you have leaked this private information, you will receive an official warning and suspension.”

She sits back again, letting out a low breath. “We need to squash these rumours, because if the Chimera gets ahold of it, he will run. I can assure you.”

He wouldn’t, Mirio reassures her mentally, because I know where he is and what he’ll do . 

Or does he? He’s lied before, what’s stopping him from doing it again? He doesn’t want to think about it. At least his comfort comes in the fact that the Hero Board, aside from toeing the line of blackmail and rudeness, tended to over exaggerate. They didn’t come up with appropriate solutions, which is strange, considering that most of the crime syndicate—when dangerous Villains and Vigilantes were involved—ran past them. It makes him wonder just how solid this hierarchy really is.

The meeting only lasts an hour, and Mirio can see by the look on each Hero’s face that it wasn’t worth the time. They strategised, they discussed, and the Heroes are no closer to discovering the identity of the Chimera aside from the clothes he wears and the technicalities of his quirk. It’s like a step forward and two steps back.

Tamaki, what are you thinking?

He wants to ask him so badly, and even with his attempts at being fully attentive, it’s difficult. His mind keeps wandering, his hands keep moving, and soon it all bleeds to white noise again; interrupted with swirls of colour. Just like last time.

And then, an explosion of green.

“Togata.”

Mirio nearly startles, and meets the Board Leader’s eyes. She definitely noticed his airiness—he can see it in the clench of her jaw—and for a moment, he thinks she’s going to address it.

“What is the likelihood that Amajiki Tamaki is this Chimera?”

There it is; the catch. He stares at her, slack-jawed. She’d known from the beginning what to ask, and here she is, asking him when he’s off-guard. She’d wanted this. She’d been looking for it.

“Uh—”

“It can’t be,” Midoriya says from his side, eyebrows furrowed. “I know Amajiki, and—”

“I’m addressing Togata.” Her eyes pierce through him again. “What is the probability?”

Mirio’s throat feels dry. “It’s—it’s unlikely. I’ve known him for a long time, and it isn’t—it’s not his nature. He’s quiet.”

“But he disappeared two years ago. Have you not been in contact with him since?”

A question that he’s doomed to answer. If he says yes, then he’ll face paperwork and questions and pulling him back to the spotlight. If he says no, she’ll point out his contradiction and go on to say that the possibility is even likelier. All eyes at the table are on him once again.

“Tamaki wouldn’t—”

“This is bullshit.” 

This time, it comes from Bakugou at the other end of the table. “I know Captain Anxiety too. This ain’t the kind of crap he’d pull.”

“Exactly,” Midoriya breaks in again. “It’s uncharacteristic. Maybe he’s just anxious enough to—”

“I’m addressing Togata ,” the Board Leader spits, and the room fills with that venomous haze, like a snake ready to pounce and snap. “He’s clearly the one who knows Amajiki best, and—”

“But what proof—”

And then it’s all white noise again. Someone shouting, others shouting back, all blended and swirled in colour. If voices were colour, theirs would be red—red for anger.

“Let’s go.”

Midoriya is pulling him—face like thunder—back through the doors and to the elevator. For the number one Hero to walk out like that, all in defence of Tamaki, makes Mirio sicker than ever before. They’re defending a lie, and he can’t tell them. 

He pulls them into the elevator and smashes the button for the ground floor—one hundred floors below—and stands glaring at the metal doors pressing shut. His shoulders are heaving, cheeks flushed, and it’s the most frustrated Mirio has seen him in a long time. He’s not sure what to say.

Eventually, Midoriya’s shoulders sag, and he leans forward to press his forehead to the cool metal. He lets his forehead hit against it again. And again. And again. 

“I’m sorry I caused an argument. It was your battle.”

Mirio could laugh. Of everyone, Midoriya shouldn’t be apologising. “Hey, it’s okay, bean sprout. Thanks for the backup.”

He turns his head to smile at him, and then leans back with a click of his tongue. “Can I ask you something? I know I shouldn’t ask right after a dispute, but—”

His heart rises to his throat, the steady thump quickening and quickening. 

“Is there any chance Tamaki could be the Chimera?”

Yet another question and answer he’s doomed with. He hates lying like he hates loud noises, hates mud, hates sitting still, and here he is, spinning one. He should tell him no, there’s no chance. He should keep this lie up for the sake of everyone’s sanity, but after that—

Midoriya deserves the truth; he can’t live lying to the one person he shouldn’t lie to. Rather than answer directly, he sidesteps. 

“Maybe.”

He can’t meet his eyes, but he hears him sigh.

“I thought so.” 

They know, they know, they know . 

Mirio’s throat burns with a mixture of bile and heaviness, and he can’t breathe. Invisible hands are around his throat, squeezing and squeezing and squeezing, and he can’t run away, he can’t fight it.

He’s going to lose Tamaki, just like he lost Sir. Just like he lost his quirk. Just like he lost his license for a few months. He’s going to lose it all.

The rain pounds against the gravel and his shoulders and hair, and Mirio breaks into a sprint back to the apartment, to their home. To his last safe place which traps Tamaki like a bird in a cage, a canary in a coal mine.

He doesn’t bother taking his shoes off or leaving his dripping costume by the door, because it’s all a blur. Their apartment is as familiar to him as his scars, but now it’s a maze of books and bags and furniture as he searches. Tamaki, where’s Tamaki? Had they taken him already? Tamaki, Tamaki, Tamaki—

“Mirio?”

His head whips around and he sees him at the kitchen doorway, chopsticks prodding at noodles in boiling water, eyes restless. “What’s happening? Are you—are you okay? Mirio?”

He’s across the room in two strides, uncaring for the ramen that sloshes over him and burns his skin, or Tamaki’s surprised gasp. He needs his arms around him like he needs air, to feel that he’s really there and not a figment of his imagination, skin blessedly solid under his fingertips. 

Tamaki stands stock-still, unable to return the hug, and lets himself be pulled closer. His breathing stutters, and Mirio drops his forehead heavily to his shoulder as Tamaki finally places the bowl precariously on a table edge. He wraps his arms around Mirio’s waist and links his fingers at the small of his back, pressing his lips to the juncture of his collar.

“It’s okay,” he mutters, reassurance for them both, and strokes Mirio’s skin with his thumbs. “I’m here, right here.”

How ironic that, one day, Tamaki would comfort him from his own anxiety. For many, many years, it was the other way around. 

“They know,” Mirio splutters after a while, drowning in panic. “They’re—they’re catching on. Midoriya mentioned you and then they all looked at me and I—I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know. You lied to me, you promised you’d be careful.”

He feels Tamaki’s sigh more than he hears it, and shuts his eyes as fingers slide through his hair in rhythmic twists. 

“They don’t know yet,” Tamaki mutters, kissing the side of his head. “It’s speculation. They’re going to watch you.” He hesitates. “I can’t do this to you again. I know I lied, but I can’t stay here locked up—”

“I’m not letting you go,” Mirio gasps, wrapping his arms around Tamaki like he’s afraid he’ll disappear in a heartbeat, like a man overboard. “You can’t go. I won’t—I’m not—“

“Mirio.” 

Tamaki pushes him back gently to cup his face. He’s only an inch shorter, so he stares Mirio in the eye evenly, but he still has trouble meeting it.

“We’ve known it was coming. ”

Mirio’s mouth opens, but Tamaki shushes him. “Stop trying to—trying to fight . It’s selfish.”

Selfish . If there’s one thing he hates it’s that. Selfishness, being called selfish, but he is. He can’t deny that he wants Tamaki by his side for the sole purpose of being his best friend, his crutch, his warm bath at the end of a long day. Tamaki could say more, could say an abundance of things that would hurt, but he doesn’t. He just messes Mirio’s flattened hair.

“It’ll take them a while to get themselves together, so I’ll stay one more week. I’ll pack my stuff, get a disposable phone or something. I know your number.”

Mirio wants to argue. Every fibre of his being wants to scream and shout that the Universe is playing against him; but it dies on his lips. The plea in Tamaki’s eyes quashes the dregs of fight.

“Okay,” he whispers after a pregnant pause. “Okay, okay. I’ll—I’ll help you pack.”

Tamaki gives him his thinnest smile. “Give me one of your shirts.”

“Only if you leave me one of yours.”

He snorts this time, and pulls Mirio in again. There’s another hesitation.

“We never got to talk about a relationship.”

Mirio noses the crook of Tamaki’s neck, letting his musk wash over him and into his memory. He doesn’t want to forget something so precious. “I don’t think it’s needed in the end.”

“Yeah.” Tamaki huffs a chuckle. “I guess we’ve been in one for years.”

“We just never got around to making it official.” 

There had never been a rush, no reason to scare Tamaki away if it wasn’t mutual. The transition to a relationship hadn’t been a transition at all; it had been a subtle upgrade. One that didn’t need words to confirm it.  

“It wouldn’t have worked anyway.”

“Not now,” Tamaki agrees, and lets his forehead drop too. “But thanks. For all of—for everything. For being with me for nineteen years.”

Mirio can’t get his next sentence out because he splutters on his sobs, and Tamaki holds him tighter. Maybe in another Universe it would have worked out, but not here, not now.

The rift had begun years ago, but now it was tearing the seamless threads of their friendship—relationship—apart.

The call comes less than a week later, when Mirio’s hopes—those tiny rays of sunshine—are peeking through the storm clouds. Maybe those rumours of the Chimera settled, maybe they found a scapegoat; maybe it was all a test to see if he’d buckle. Maybe they’d decided to leave them alone.

And then the alert; the message flashing across his screen like his third death sentence—

SPECIAL ORDER: Togata Mirio, presence requested at HQ. Report.

It’s the first time he lets Tamaki out of his sight in two days. He’d been too scared to let him roam the streets, not when they were looking so adamantly. It kept him up day and night, then he worries about being too controlling in a never ending cycle. But the thought of losing Tamaki, of never seeing his face again or hearing his sweet laugh, pushes him through it all. Even though Tamaki’s restless, he allows his anxiety to take over. 

Mirio knows he shouldn’t, but when their relationship is built on lies, can he really trust him anymore?

“I need to go out for a few hours,” Mirio tells him whilst he pulls on his Hero costume, the rubber clinging his skin. “Emergency patrol. I’ll be back soon.” 

“Emergency patrol?” Tamaki looks up from his phone, eyebrows furrowed. “I—um. I thought you had a few days off?”

“I do, but there’s a—” Mirio waves his hands around nonchalantly. “Collision. Villains. All hands on deck.”

“Right.” 

Tamaki goes back to his phone, and the lie leaves a bad taste in his mouth. How can he begin to tell Tamaki that he’s part of the task force to find him? The simple answer is that he can’t, not ever.

Mirio confines himself to his thoughts on the journey there; too scared of what he’ll say or do if he talks to anyone. He doesn’t want to think beyond daydreams, to be touched or cornered into a signature, and it’s the first time he’s ever avoided his fans. It makes him feel sicker than before; worthless. What kind of a Hero is he if he can’t speak to his supporters? Can’t keep a friend? Can’t stop lying?

He closes his eyes, and suddenly he’s on the elevator up to the penthouse of the skyscraper; the HQ of the Hero Board. He may as well live here, under their thumb, kept under verbal lock and key. There’d be no difference. 

The doors slide open, and the long table in the conference room awaits him like an old enemy. Each pair of eyes, each member of the Hero Board, stare at him like he’s just as much an enemy as he feels. He’s so tired he can’t find it in himself to care.

“Togata,” the Board Leader greets, standing, and gestures to a chair on the opposite side of the table. “Take a seat.”

Apart from the seven Board Members and two security guards stationed by the doors, the room is empty. Without Deku’s smile, or Ground Zero’s presence, or any of the other task force members voices, it feels empty. He feels out of place.

Mirio takes a seat and stares at her, watching as her eyes flicker briefly to the purple and black bags clinging to his eyes. Her expression is unreadable. 

“Togata,” she says again. “I suppose you know why we’ve called you here.”

His eyebrows raise. There’s a thousand theorised scenarios, but one stands out to him. He’s not stupid, he doesn’t miss points; they have evidence from somewhere. Somehow. Still, he chooses to shake his head.

“We’ve received a tip from an anonymous source of the Chimera’s true identity.” Her eyes sharpen, just like an eagle’s challenging stare. “This is no time to play games, so I won’t bother asking if you know. We’re certain you do, especially since you live with him.”

Mirio’s heart stops. 

“Excuse me?”

The Board Leader sighs and rubs her temple, like Mirio’s the start of a headache she can’t shake. “Cameras, Togata. We have cameras and undercover Heroes working for us.”

He blinks at her slowly, and slumps in his seat. That’s it, then. If they have footage, evidence of any sort, things that can skip court and go straight to a cell, there’s no point arguing. It’d be for a lost cause, the losing side, and he’s too tired to do this all again. His fight is drained.

“Why didn’t you use the cameras before if you were suspicious?” He chooses to say instead. “Why now?”

“Because we had to be certain. The courts aren’t very lenient and require solid, lawful evidence. A law we don’t expect you to understand.” She leans forward until she can capture Mirio’s gaze in the intensity. “We’ve found you guilty of working with a conspirator, and you know the consequences of such.”

Mirio’s life flashes before his eyes in a millisecond: UA, his provisional and full license, his quirk, the work he’s put in for years upon years. All of it will amount to nothing, because he wasn’t careful enough; because he couldn’t let Tamaki go. It’s all his fault. 

“However.”

His heart picks up again in that steady thump thump thump . 

“We’re willing to compromise.” 

She rests on her palm, smiling like the cat that caught the canary, and he’s left speechless. “We’ll overlook this offence with a temporary suspension, and—as you did not partake in the Chimera’s activities—let you walk away.”

All of a sudden, those exhausted days, those sleepless nights, evaporate. He feels more awake than he’s done in a long time, like seeing the sun after nights in darkness, and he stares at her without knowing what to feel. All of his worries had boiled down to two things; his Hero license and losing Tamaki. All of them, and here she is, offering them both. He can’t believe it.

“But there’s a catch.”

Of course there is. She has his attention now, and he sits back, fully attentive.

“We ask that, in return, you give us the Chimera. You stall him until we can effectively issue an arrest warrant.” She drums her fingers on the tabletop. “So, you have a choice; get thrown in prison and lose your status as a Hero, or keep your status and give us Amajiki. We’re not patient people.”

And there it is again, the need to throw up in a bucket, or into his hands. He wants to cry and slap himself at the same time, because it’s an impossible choice; how is he supposed to make it? How is he supposed to choose between his best friend and the dream he’s chased year upon year, the dream Eri and Sir pleaded him to follow? How can he do this?

“We need a decision when that clock hand hits three,” the Leader says, as casually as organising dinner plans, pointing to the clock behind her. Less than a minute, that’s all he has to make a choice that will change his life.

But what to do? His pulse becomes erratic, cold sweat down his spine and neck. He can’t give up his best friend, and his Hero license is something he’ll never be able to get back, but what will happen if he’s thrown in prison? The clock’s ticking and he can’t focus, the seconds are counting down and down and down—

Ten.

He can’t do this, there’s no way—

Nine. 

What if he does? Will he be able to live with the guilt?

Eight.

But what’s the alternative? He keeps seeing Deku’s face, Eri’s, his father’s and teacher’s, Tamaki—

Seven.

His fingers curl into fists and his foot taps irregularly. 

Six.

He might throw up before he gets to choose—what if he doesn’t choose at all?

Five.

They won’t accept a neutral answer, they’ll just throw him in prison. He won’t have this choice again—

Four.

—but Tamaki, wonderful Tamaki, who he’s loved since he was a child—why does he have to be this selfish?

Three.

He can’t breathe.

Two.

He can’t think.

One.

He can’t focus—

“Time’s up,” she purrs.

The world rushes by in a hurry, in a whirlwind of colour and sound, and Mirio is numb to it all. It’s like static, a world through a block of ice, where the car horns are muffled and the sound of thousands of footsteps are silent.

Mirio had never believed in tunnel vision; for someone composed of energy once and always, he looked around all the time. Now, it’s like he can see nothing apart from his apartment rising in the distance, hear anything apart from the furious thumping of his heart, feel anything but the sweat cooling on his palms. He feels like he’s drowning and burning alive all at once. 

The Hero Board are always the cruellest, but the extent of their cruelty reaches no boundaries. They’re unsympathetic, they’re ruthless, and they will use any means to catch those out of their reach. To them, any and all Heroes are expendable; for every Hero, there are ten to take their place, just like All Might and Hawks and Endeavour. Just like Deku and Ground Zero. Just like Lemillion and Suneater.

Turn his best friend in, or revoke his Hero license. There’s no light at the end of this long tunnel; either one will land him in guilt that will choke him for the rest of his days. There’s no second chance after this.

He finds his way back by following his feet, on a route he’s used a thousand times before. This could very well be the last time he takes it, and he should take his time, should marvel at the stained carpet and the cracked glass, but he doesn’t. It’s still through that thin layer of ice—just a fingertip away—and, when he touches the hardwood of their door, it finally breaks.

The touch is grounding. It always is when he dissociates—Tamaki taught him that, reinforced by his therapist. PTSD leaves you like this , she’d told him, and he’d felt helpless, weak. Even years later, it hadn’t changed. 

It takes him far too long to open the door, but when he does, he’s greeted by the smell of roasting sesame seeds. Tamaki making his lunch, preparing for—what? What does Tamaki do when he leaves through the window? Does it even matter?

Tamaki appears at the door, plate in hand, chopsticks holding a ringlet of squid. He freezes when he sees Mirio—already dressed in his Vigilante clothes, as black as the night—and searches his face. He knows something is wrong. 

Mirio meets his eyes. Tamaki swallows.

“What’s up?”

He drops his gaze again, shuffling to kick off his shoes and cape. He doesn’t quite know what to say now that he’s faced with it and Mirio can feel anxiety seep into the air. They’re frustrated at each other and too afraid to show it.

Mirio lands heavily on the sofa, staring hard at the ceiling. The wallpaper and paint is old, popcorned and yellowed, but it’s home. It’s their home. 

“They know,” he says simply, voice barely above a whisper, and he hears Tamaki’s sharp intake of breath. 

There’s a pause where the silence is thicker than the atmosphere, and then Tamaki comes over to the sofa and sits by him. He places the squid on the coffee table and lays his chopsticks next to the plate. His eyes go to the ceiling too as he pulls his knees to his chest. 

“We knew this day was coming.” 

Tamaki’s voice is soft, gentle, like he’s comforting Mirio more than he’s comforting himself. It shouldn’t be like this—it should be the other way around. It always had been. 

“I know.” 

Mirio’s voice is hoarse and raw with emotion, and he still doesn’t know what to say. He feels like a child all over again, sitting with Tamaki under the stars on a warm night after exploring the beach—Tamaki with that cut on his nose, Mirio with a bucket of shells. He wishes they weren’t so far away from that memory.

“You’re part of the task force, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t bother to ask how he knows. Rumours spread like wildfire among the streets, and he’s half surprised it wasn’t brought up sooner. They’ve been lying to each other for months.

“You’ve been using criminals as distractions, right? A crumb trail.”

It didn’t seem like Tamaki, it sounded too calculated, but at the same time the evidence is indisputable. He can’t understand it, nor his thought process.

“Yeah,” Tamaki breathes. Mirio sighs.

“Yeah.”

There’s another silence, and then the ceiling lights up in red and blue. It’s faint at first, but then the wail of sirens fills the night air, filters in through the open window, and encases the silence in the room like it had never been there at all.

Mirio shuts his eyes tightly. He feels like a traitor, like he’s a Hero built on a throne of deceit and nothing more. He feels sicker than ever.

He hears Tamaki sigh through his nose and uncurl. For the first time ever, he’s unsure of what he’s going to do, of what he’s going to say and, for the first time ever, he thinks Tamaki is going to hit him.

But then there’s the softness of a touch, and he lets Tamaki lace their fingers together and trace his fingertip over his knuckles. 

“It’s not your fault.” He reaches up and tilts Mirio’s face until they can look each other in the eye. “None of this is your fault. This is what I chose for myself. I did this, not you.”

A dam breaks. The blue of sadness, twirling and clawing and grabbing at his chest, bubbling and burning his eyes until he’s doubled over, shoulders shaking. This time he cries like he’s lost everything in that moment, and he supposes he has. Tamaki is his everything.

“Hey—” Tamaki rasps, voice shaken, as the sirens grow louder and a megaphone echoes. “Hey, it’s not your fault, I promise. We’ll see each other one day, okay?”

He feels like he’s drowning all over again; swallowed in a maelstrom of blue. 

“I don’t want to lose you,” he gasps, clutching at the remnants of air. “I don’t—I can’t do this, I can’t do this without you—“

“Mirio.” 

Tamaki gathers his head in his hands and rests their foreheads together. There are tears on his cheeks—sorrow of two souls being forced apart—and it’s killing him. “Mirio, you can do it. You’re the strongest person I know, you always have been. I’ve looked up to you since I was a kid. Be that Hero, okay? Okay?”

He wants to argue with him, but the megaphone sounds again. This time, the voice is demanding their attention, demanding he comes outside, and this time they can’t ignore it.

Tamaki inhales through his mouth, exhales through his nose. His hands are shaking.

“You’ll be okay,” Tamaki keeps telling him, but Mirio can’t believe it. How can he be when the person he comes home to every night will be gone? How can he be when half his life will be missing? How can he be when he’s giving up the memories of the beach from all those years ago, the plaster and the shells? 

It’s too short a time when Tamaki stands and throws his hood on, then his visor. He gives him one last thin smile, and Mirio is left to stare at the squid on the table like it’s the remnants of hope, of a life he once knew.

And, as Tamaki walks to the apartment door—to the world outside and the police cars and the megaphone—the world fades to monochrome again.