Work Text:
Summoning up every single ounce of his courage, Tamaki finds his voice and calls out to the examinee in front of him before he can second-guess himself any longer:
“Mirio?”
Their story started many years ago, a lonely day in third grade, with a dark haired boy teased relentlessly by his classmates for an ugly and monstrous quirk that made him manifest chicken feet and octopus tentacles and feathers and tails and gross parts when he was afraid.
The bullying only made him more afraid, of course, therefore exacerbating the problem for young Tamaki Amajiki.
Tamaki was always a quiet student in class, where his peers couldn’t actively insult him and his quirk without being a disruption to the learning environment and getting into trouble for it. As such, his teachers had little issue with him, even if his stuttering tried their patience sometimes. In fact, one could say he was fairly well liked by his instructors; he was of course certainly a welcome change from the rowdy children they were all so used to.
But out of class, Tamaki had no friends.
Until one day, one uneventful ordinary Tuesday, on which the teacher called for order and quiet to the classroom as she made a special announcement.
“Mirio will be joining us today and for the rest of the year,” she told the class. “He has recently transferred here from Shizuoka. I hope you will treat him well.”
A new student?
Tamaki looked at the blond boy with sky-blue eyes and a hopeful and silly yet fairly nervous look on his face.
Of course he would do what Sakura-sensei said; of course he would treat this boy well—after all, Tamaki knew full well how it felt to be shunned by one’s peers.
The rest of the class gave an enthusiastic greeting, and life went on as it always did.
At lunch, Tamaki noticed the boy sitting alone at the end of one of the long tables in the cafeteria. Of course, in typical oblivious third grade fashion, the regular friend groups had congregated together and forgotten all about the new student.
Except Tamaki had no such friend group to drag him away and sweep the boy from his memory.
He hesitantly approached the table, ignoring the snickers of a nearby lunch group.
“Hi,” he started, sticking out a hand the way his mother had taught him.
Mirio accepted it, looking up at Tamaki.
“Do you wanna eat with me?” Tamaki asked, and Mirio nodded gratefully as Tamaki led him away from the cafeteria with its unwelcoming people to a secluded spot in the courtyard.
And thus, a friendship was born of two children who each were wanted by nobody but the other.
Mirio had a better time at school; he got along with everybody, an effect of his outgoing personality, but in spite of the questions- “why on earth are you hanging out with him every day, Mirio, you’ve got us and we’re so much better?”- Mirio stuck with Tamaki loyally.
And truly, they understood each other in a way that was unique to them. And they were inseparable. Walking home from school, they took detours to admire scenery or bask in the peace and quiet and anonymity. They would walk to Mirio’s house first, because it was closer to the school they attended, and then Tamaki would go the rest of the way home by himself. But in the mornings, Mirio’s father dropped by Tamaki’s house on the way to work, taking a large loop to deliver the two boys every day.
When Tamaki grew fond of the cats in the dumpster, Mirio paid for cat food with his allowance money and brought it on their walks from school. They fed, petted, played with, and of course named those cats—Patches, Erasercat, Meowmight, Princess Meowistic Destroyer of Worlds, and Felix—although the naming process did not go without an extremely intense debate about certain names. (In the end, there were enough cats that every single of the beloved adorable furry creatures was entrusted with a name.)
When Mirio struggled in their math course, Tamaki, ever the studious one, tutored him until they both aced the next quizzes and tests and teacher praised both of their improvements in front of the whole class.
When Tamaki had been bullied once too many times for his stutter and decided that he wished to rid himself of it once and for all, Mirio encouraged him to join the debate team. Together, as a duo, they ended up winning second place in the school wide competition.
When Mirio began seeing the effects of puberty on his body and his quirk, causing him to slip up and end up indecent more and more often to his great embarrassment, Tamaki not only developed the habit of bringing an extra clean uniform, but also trained his own quirk and braved the teasing to manifest giant wings that would hide Mirio’s body from sight until he could don his clothes again.
And with the quirk training, as Mirio gradually gained a hold of his own feisty permeation ability, a possibility arose:
They could become heroes.
It was a possibility that, of course, everybody their age considered at some point.
But at this point they were old enough for it not to simply be nothing but a silly and unrealistic dream.
It was a true possibility.
They were truly the best of friends.
And they vowed that day to be the best of heroes together, never leaving each other’s side, each protecting the other for ever and ever.
“You and me. Forever.”
A childish promise, but it gave them hope.
And then Tamaki’s father came up to him one day, and said, “I’m sorry, son, but we have to move away. Your mother got a new job in Tokyo.”
Those simple two sentences. It was all that was needed to destroy Tamaki’s hope.
He missed their friendship and camaraderie and connection for years; although he was able to make new friends, with his quirk and his stutter under control, Mirio would always be his first and his best. Nobody would ever replace Mirio in Tamaki’s heart; nobody even so much as came remotely close.
And then- and then came the day of the UA High School entrance exam.
Many years later, Tamaki steps out of the Shinkansen red line train and onto the platform, beginning the fairly short walk to UA High School, the school of both his and Mirio’s childhood dreams.
Outside the towering gates, he sends a thought out into the world that whoever Mirio is, he too is chasing his dream. The possibility crosses his mind that if their dreams have still remained the same after all this time, perhaps, maybe just maybe they will meet once more here.
He enters the square and pauses right in the center of it, glancing around, taking in his surroundings. And then he sees a sight that he almost does not dare to believe is real, one that he nearly misses and nearly convinces himself out of having seen.
Summoning up every ounce of his courage that he built through nights of video calls, afternoons of walking home together, evenings of debate and quirk and math practice, Tamaki finds his voice and calls out to the examinee in front of him before he can second-guess himself any longer:
“Mirio?”
The blond-haired boy turns, and suddenly Tamaki is met with familiar sky-blue eyes that have changed so much and yet so little. Mirio’s face splits into a smile at the sight of him, and- oh, that kind, bright, caring smile is still the same, after all this time.
“Tamaki! I never thought I’d see you again!” he exclaims.
“Do you… do you still remember our promise?” Tamaki asks falteringly.
Mirio nods. “To become big strong heroes together, and always protect each other? Of course.”
“It might happen after all,” Tamaki responds, hope blossoming in his chest.
“We’ll make it happen,” Mirio vows. “I know we will. We’ll be the greatest duo ever!” He pumps a fist into the air, and his enthusiasm is infectious—despite being well aware of the fact that they still have to actually pass the most difficult hero school entrance exam in the country, Tamaki finds the corners of his mouth turning up in a hesitant smile as he repeats the words they said to each other six years ago.
“You and me. Forever.”