vii.
A yellow vest should not have made Mirio's heart stutter; a loose ponytail and unruly wisps of hair should not have seemed so exquisite. Even so – opening his hotel room door, Mirio beamed at Eri through a gold-tinted elation, finding in the colour of her shirt all the glow of daffodils and in the blotchy pinks of her cheeks all the loveliness of youth.
Were it not for the weight of memory, it could have been so normal: just two people meeting up after years, Eri a grown up girl-next-door and Mirio just a man (an old man… she probably thought he was old) who couldn't keep his eyes off her. Who couldn't stop the smile which made his face ache. And she offered him something of a smile in return, though there was about it a certain restraint as she breezed into the hotel room, a hesitation as she lowered herself onto one of the sitting cushions by the table. But still, she smiled at Mirio and it was gut-wrenchingly wonderful.
The bouquet Mirio had bought smoldered prettily on the table. While he poured them both tea, Eri touched her fingers to the petals as though she were stroking frail porcelain. Her features sparkled, enchanted. Her skin glowed, ghostly pale. She was caressing the face of a daisy when Mirio held out a steaming cup of jasmine for her, and immediately after taking it and bopping her head in a small mimic of a bow, she returned her attention to the flowers.
"Do you like them, Eri-chan?" Mirio asked her.
She nodded sweetly. "Lilies are my favourite. Like this one." Gently, she traced her fingertip over the arching petals of the bouquet's single lily. "We… umm… I used to live in a house with all sorts of lilies growing in the garden. Mostly in pots though."
"That's wonderful," Mirio grinned. He groped for more to say as Eri hummed uncertainly. "Does your husband also like lilies? Did you grow them together?"
Husband. House. Garden. Something in the domestic imagery left a bitter taste in Mirio's throat; perhaps it was only the foreignness of it though, both for Mirio himself – who'd only had one or two serious girlfriends in the past, and otherwise lived in hotelrooms – and for the image of Eri he'd spent many nights building up in his mind. She too seemed taken aback by the suggestion, blinking at him and shaking her head in a surprised slowness like a questioning doe.
She cleared her throat, the sound of it a delicate ripple. "Umm, well, no. No. He – my husband – he doesn't like flowers." A pause. Precarious. "He says they're…" Yet another pause. "He thinks flowers are silly. The house we stayed in was a… friend's. The lilies were theirs."
"Oh." Mirio should not have sounded as sad as he did.
But if Eri's husband thought such a thing, it would have been presumptuous and preposterous for Mirio to give her the bouquet as he'd originally planned. Really, it had been a stupid idea in the first place. But the look on her face as she returned her attention to the white blooms was spectacular, and the way she sighed wistfully – how could anyone not want to buy her flowers?
Mirio sipped from his tea. Eri did the same. Mirio tried to think of something to say. Eri seemed in no rush to speak.
"How did you and your husband meet?" Any and every question tasted like an intrusion, and before he could swallow his words Eri's face went grey. Mirio floundered against himself internally. "If you don't mind me asking."
"We – we–" Eri's fingers went tight around her cup. "We met–"
"I'm sorry if that's too private! We can talk about something else, Eri-chan."
She looked down. "I'm so sorry."
"No, no, Eri-chan, please. It's…" Heart in his throat. Dead weight in his hands. Mirio closed the small space between them by touching his fingers to hers. "It's fine. Let me ask you a different question. Your – well, let me see – oh! Your accent is really interesting. Can you tell me about your accent?"
"My accent?"
"Yeah! It's pretty unusual. Sort of harsh, I guess, but like – in a good way. It's striking."
"Oh," Eri blushed, and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "It's probably the Russian. We lived there for a while. In Russia. And when I say a while, I mean we lived there until about a year ago. So, yes. It's probably the Russian."
"Wow!" Was her husband a Russian then? Did the vague and nameless 'we' refer to her and him, or to her and Overhaul? Was that where Overhaul was: in Russia? "Your Japanese is great for having been gone for so long."
"I had tutors."
"Can you speak Russian too?"
Eri tilted her head to the side, almost teasing, and smiled through a string of foreign words. Foreign words both hard and gorgeous, fascinating in their heaviness, though perhaps it was only because her voice – so thin and gentle – could probably make even the severest of sounds ring beautiful like a bell. Mirio drew a breath more like a gasp, and threw his hands together as though to clap; however, when he asked her what it meant, Eri didn't give an answer.
Instead, she parted her lips in a coy grin, like a little girl mightily pleased with herself while not wanting to show it. She shrugged her shoulders, the hollows behind her collarbones deepening into lush shadows. "Nothing really," she said. "Just something easy. Sort of a greeting." But something in her voice told Mirio she had said something so much more than that.
Mystified, the whole thing as unknown as a fairytale, Mirio found himself falling slowly towards her. "Tell me what else you learned in Russia," he encouraged, and cocooned her fingers more fully in his. Hesitating. Moving closer. Hesitating again as Eri's eyes flickered towards her hands covered by his; and when she made no move to withdraw, when she came closer too with a melting about her previous stiffness, Mirio's heart receded from its squeeze in his skull and gut.
"I learned ballet," Eri said, secretive. "From a lady named Anya. She dances with the Bolshoi – do you know the Bolshoi? You don't? It's a ballet company. And it's a theatre in Moscow. It's really beautiful."
"Mmm? What makes it beautiful?"
"The ballerinas."
"Would you believe me if I told you I used to take ballet lessons too?" Mirio grinned.
And Eri shook her head pointedly, smile widening with an unuttered giggle. "No! I wouldn't believe it. You sit too slouched!"
"Ah man! You caught me! And here I thought I'd be able to cheat my way into making a good impression." Mirio clasped her hands tighter, molding them around the shape of her cup. "I underestimated your people reading skills."
She didn't reply, but made a sound like a satisfied puff and looked away. To the flowers, their reflection luminous in her eyes' deep colour. To her hands held in Mirio's – wholly chaste in spite of the intimacy, making blossomy hues seep into her cheeks despite the affection's platonic softness.
It was wrong though, to hold her hands like this. Right? It must have been. Mirio teetered on knife's edge between guilt and delight and being absolutely terrified of letting her go. Even if the touch of the gesture meant nothing, the solidity of the touch meant everything. She was with him. Nothing and no one threatened to rip her away this time. He could hold her, a thin bond, and he could see her smile in ways he'd thought he never would – that no one ever would. Even if she glanced off constantly, sometimes trembling, sometimes not.
Even if asking about her husband made her shrink like a bud against harsh sunlight – which managed to be both disappointing and disconcerting. Indeed, all through the hours she was with him, Mirio's unease grew alongside his bliss. And when Eri left, leaving behind her the white body of blooms Mirio had decided not to say was for her, the confusion of feelings refused to leave him too. And with it came a confusion of questions and more feelings. The prickle of goosebumps where Eri's hands had been in his, over the skin of his neck where he'd felt her breath in their embrace goodbye.
Where was Overhaul? Where was Overhaul? And how did her husband fit into it all? Mirio stewed over it through the lonely darkness of the morning until his alarm ripped him from his dreaminess.
And in the days that followed, Nighteye's anxiety acted as no remedy to Mirio's own.
'Russia?' Nighteye questioned skeptically in their phone call that first morning. 'How did she get to Russia? Overhaul's escape, perhaps, though there should have been something to document it. What else did she tell you? Did she say anything at all about Overhaul? About the bullets?'
"No, sir. Nothing," Mirio sighed over his coffee. "She got edgy on certain subjects. Like her husband, which I can't help but be… suspicious of, I suppose you could say."
A hum reverberated over the line.
"But nothing she said would really lead back to Overhaul. At least at this stage. It seems like she's had a lot of, uh, freedom though. You know. She speaks three languages, and she dances, and she–"
'Don't sound so doting, Mirio.' Nighteye rarely used Mirio's first name. 'This is serious.'
"I know, sir."
'I'm going to try find contacts in Russia. See if there's anything on that end. I'm considering sending someone down to you as well.'
Mirio straightened harshly in his seat. "No, sir. That won't be necessary." What he meant was – the risk of spooking Eri was too great. Both for him personally and, if there was something questionable to be found, officially. "I'll see her again. Let me figure this out."
There was a long pause. When Nighteye spoke again, Mirio knew exactly why his voice was hung with sadness. 'Mirio–'
"Please," Mirio appealed gently. "I need to do this. It's – I can't – I'm sorry, sir. But please. I vow to keep you updated and if there's anything–"
'Not if. There is something going on and I won't risk your life on it.'
"Thank you. But I must kindly reject your offer," Mirio joked, though he meant it in all seriousness and Sir would know it. "I'll tread carefully, and I'll get to the bottom of what's going on. However, if it comes to it, I will risk my life for Eri. Again. Quirk or no, I will be there for her this time."
Crackling like a sprinkler over glass, Nighteye sighed. Mirio imagined that beady, somber stare; Mirio imagined the heartbroken pity behind it, and his soul plunged. All the heartache people had poured out onto him which he'd forced himself to smile against. All the loss he'd felt over small things: when Nejire and Tamaki's daughters' quirks manifested, when he'd looked in the mirror at all his useless muscle. All for this. Because of this. For this.
If he could be one thing, it would be Eri's hero. She may not have needed it anymore. The way she looked at him may soon have been replaced with resentment. But regardless, Mirio would not give her up again.
'The moment anything – anything – goes wrong, I am sending in an army,' Nighteye conceded upon a sigh. A small victory. 'Until then, you will keep me informed day and night.'
"Sir, yes, sir!" Mirio grinned.
And so the week came and went. Meetings. Contracts. Handshakes and amicable small talk with pros and sidekicks and PR reps.
Like clockwork amongst it all though, that achingly familiar number called on the same evening at the same time as Mirio had hoped it would, Eri's voice on the other end speaking in a hushed rush of excitable words; and two nights later, a new bouquet of flowers gleaming in pinks upon the table (the old lady at the flower shop had recognised Mirio instantly), there Eri came in a knitted sweater despite the late spring heat.
Another week. And another one. And another. Each bringing with it a new arrangement of blooms – shades of yellow in daffodils, hues of purple in hydrangeas, and an extravagant amount of lilies – and when Eri questioned it, Mirio only said it was a perk offered by the hotel. Weekly flower arrangements. Weekly joy in seeing Eri's features bloom more beautiful than any bouquet.
More than that, it was a weekly joy to read into the things she said and the things she didn't. To analyse them like secret messages: the clothing she wore, how carefully she sipped her tea, the snacks she chose to pick upon (the sweet things, and with a surprising enthusiasm) the night Mirio decided to try order them food once again. She flinched every time he moved, and still said nothing of her husband. But she spoke about ballet, and the woman named Anya, and she told Mirio all about the books she read.
And he – he responded in kind by telling her every pleasant detail about himself until he felt fruitfully sapped like an apple to be squashed into juice.
And Eri – Eri smiled. She smiled small, and shy, and uncertain. She made little gestures that could either have been endearing or heartbreaking. Such as how she rubbed at the bottom of her stomach without realising it when Mirio spoke about Tamaki and Nejire's girls. Such as how her shoulders rose into her neck whenever the word 'quirk' came up in conversation.
And on the latest night, before she disappeared into the darkness like a dream-fairy (Eri-fairy… it had a ring to it…) Mirio kissed the back of her hand like a dashing knight. All the bird-light undulations of her bones, the petal spread of veins, the pristine whiteness of her skin – he pressed his lips to it all tenderly and thoughtlessly, relishing the tightening of her fingers against his and the dewy glimmer with which she looked at him before darting off.
Nighteye struggled to accept the softness of it all. Bubble Girl too, tutting at Mirio over the phone together with Sir on their bi-nightly phone calls.
As it turned out after ruthless digging, Overhaul had indeed gone to Russia. With Chronostasis and with Eri. It had all been arranged by The Mafia, who fostered rather more power on their side of the world than Overhaul's yakuza had managed in Japan. However, beyond that, trails ran dark. And Mirio only continued to float upon the cloud which separated him from reality. Him, the thirty year old man almost thirty-one, in no rush to find the dangers with which he danced.
At least, not until the next week, when no call came from Eri on the evening Mirio expected it and when no knock came on his door two nights later.