Mirio and Tamaki
The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and new paint—sterile neutrality designed to make people feel small.
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. A pitcher of water sat untouched in the center of the long conference table.
Tamaki Amajiki was already sitting.
His hands were folded tightly in his lap, fingers twisting together. His shoulders curved inward, gaze fixed somewhere near the table's surface rather than the guards by the door.
The silence pressed down like deep water.
Then the door opened.
Mirio Togata stepped inside with the easy confidence of someone who refused to be intimidated. He paused, blinking at the brightness, then offered the guards a friendly wave.
Neither guard responded.
Mirio's smile didn't falter. Then his eyes landed on the person already seated.
Tamaki froze. For half a second his brain refused to process what he was seeing. Then his shoulders lifted slightly—relief, if you knew him.
Mirio's grin widened, crossing the room in long strides.
Tamaki's gaze dropped, but his hands loosened.
Mirio chuckled.
The door opened. A tall Commission official stepped inside, clipboard in hand.
Mirio leaned back. Tamaki shrank another inch.
The man didn't sit.
Mirio blinked. Tamaki's stomach dropped through the floor.
The official's voice was flat.
Mirio leaned forward, expression still calm but focus sharper.
Mirio glanced sideways. Tamaki hadn't moved, shoulders curled inward, gaze fixed on the table like if he didn't look up, the words wouldn't be real.
Mirio softened.
Tamaki swallowed.
The official flipped a page.
Silence. Tamaki's pulse pounded.
The official cleared his throat.
Mirio tilted his head.
Tamaki blinked slowly.
Mirio frowned slightly. “Triad.”
Tamaki's brain stalled.
Mirio rubbed his neck.
Mirio glanced at Tamaki—shoulders tight, breathing shallow, that familiar overwhelmed look.
Mirio straightened.
Tamaki inhaled.
The official pressed the intercom. “Your spouse has already been briefed.”
The guards stepped forward and pulled the door open.
Light from the hallway spilled across the tile.
For a moment, no one entered.
Then footsteps approached.
The official finally set his clipboard on the table, sliding a thin folder into the center.
“Once introductions are complete,” he said flatly, “we’ll proceed with the formal acknowledgment and contract signatures.”
Mirio’s gaze lifted toward the doorway.
Tamaki’s hands tightened again in his lap.
“Send them in.”
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. A pitcher of water sat untouched in the center of the long conference table.
Tamaki Amajiki was already sitting.
His hands were folded tightly in his lap, fingers twisting together. His shoulders curved inward, gaze fixed somewhere near the table's surface rather than the guards by the door.
The silence pressed down like deep water.
Then the door opened.
Mirio Togata stepped inside with the easy confidence of someone who refused to be intimidated. He paused, blinking at the brightness, then offered the guards a friendly wave.
Morning! This the mysterious meeting?
Neither guard responded.
Mirio's smile didn't falter. Then his eyes landed on the person already seated.
…Tamaki?
Tamaki froze. For half a second his brain refused to process what he was seeing. Then his shoulders lifted slightly—relief, if you knew him.
M-Mirio…?
Mirio's grin widened, crossing the room in long strides.
Well hey! That's a relief.He pulled out the chair beside him.
I was starting to think this was an interrogation.
Tamaki's gaze dropped, but his hands loosened.
…It might still be.
Mirio chuckled.
Yeah, maybe.
The door opened. A tall Commission official stepped inside, clipboard in hand.
Mirio leaned back. Tamaki shrank another inch.
The man didn't sit.
Pro Heroes Lemillion and Suneater. You've been selected for a Priority One Reproductive Union under the Quirk Marriage Initiative.
Mirio blinked. Tamaki's stomach dropped through the floor.
…I'm sorry,Mirio said carefully.
A reproductive what?
The official's voice was flat.
A national stability program pairing high-value Quirk holders into government-recognized unions.
Mirio leaned forward, expression still calm but focus sharper.
So we've been selected for marriage.
Yes.
Mirio glanced sideways. Tamaki hadn't moved, shoulders curled inward, gaze fixed on the table like if he didn't look up, the words wouldn't be real.
Mirio softened.
…Tamaki?
Tamaki swallowed.
…I don't think I can do this.
The official flipped a page.
This is not optional. Refusal means license suspension and charges under Civil Order Thirty-Nine.
Silence. Tamaki's pulse pounded.
I didn't even know—Mirio, you don't have to—
Hey.Mirio turned toward him, gentle but firm.
It's okay. We'll figure it out.
The official cleared his throat.
You misunderstand. You're not being paired with each other.
Mirio tilted his head.
…Okay.
This program uses triad unions for heroes with demonstrated long-term compatibility. Existing bonds are preserved.
Tamaki blinked slowly.
Mirio frowned slightly. “Triad.”
You'll both be married to the same partner. Government housing. Integration expected within ninety days. Each of you must produce at least one child within the five-year cycle.
Tamaki's brain stalled.
Mirio rubbed his neck.
Man, you really don't believe in small talk, do you?
This is not a discussion.
Mirio glanced at Tamaki—shoulders tight, breathing shallow, that familiar overwhelmed look.
Mirio straightened.
Okay.He smiled softly.
Deep breath.
Tamaki inhaled.
…Sorry.
You don't have to apologize.
The official pressed the intercom. “Your spouse has already been briefed.”
The guards stepped forward and pulled the door open.
Light from the hallway spilled across the tile.
For a moment, no one entered.
Then footsteps approached.
The official finally set his clipboard on the table, sliding a thin folder into the center.
“Once introductions are complete,” he said flatly, “we’ll proceed with the formal acknowledgment and contract signatures.”
Mirio’s gaze lifted toward the doorway.
Tamaki’s hands tightened again in his lap.
“Send them in.”
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