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Chapter Text


It had been years since Aizawa Shouta last slept in. He was programmed to wake before dawn, regardless of what hour he'd been up to or how much he'd had to drink. His hangover was blessedly mild this time, the stillness of the pre-dawn morning perfect for rehydrating and medicating himself into wellness.

He crept silently through the apartment, his socks preventing even the smallest sound from betraying him. He slid into the bathroom undetected, instinctively lifting the drawer as he pulled it out to prevent the tracks from grinding. Squinting in the dim light did nothing for his headache, but he wouldn't risk the switch. He found the bottle he was looking for quickly enough, swallowing the coated pills dry.

He would take his water in the kitchen, he'd decided, but while he was trespassing, he reasoned that he may as well satisfy his curiosity. The bottles were equal parts generic and prescription, a blend of supplements and suppressants, most seeming to deal with gastrointestinal issues and the rest with athletic recovery. Finding nothing terribly interesting, Aizawa closed the drawer again, padding out of the bathroom, eyes roaming.

It wasn't the first time he'd stayed over at Yagi's place, though each previous time had been on a weekday. They were both up early then, awkwardly getting ready and making the quiet walk to UA. Aizawa considered it awkward, in any case. For Yagi, it seemed a relief to have someone he could spend time with alone. He made breakfast despite Aizawa's queasiness and refusal, delicately tying it in a spare kerchief and bringing it with them for his planning period.

Yagi Toshinori was a strange man, Aizawa had long since decided. He was oddly domestic, a fantastic host and a doting friend. There was a strange isolation he had never bothered to notice before they begun hanging out that seemed to disappear once they were alone together. It seemed as if he'd waited a lifetime to bond with someone, perhaps anyone, in the casual way that they had started to.

What started as a once-off occurrence had become regular. Somehow, a drink and a snack becoming dinner and drinks, first out in society, then later at his home. Yagi never drank and admitted that the greasy food they often paired with Aizawa's liquor was too heavy for him to easily handle. He relished making dinner and choosing a movie, happy to share simple pleasures with his closest friend.

Was he truly a friend?

The question burned Aizawa a bit as he idly leafed through the folders neatly stacked next to his host's computer. He tried to justify that many people snooped when allowed, but it still felt something like betrayal. What was he hoping to find out? What would he do with the information once he did?

Silent as a shadow, he moved through Yagi's carefully maintained apartment, pausing anywhere that caught his attention, even if just for a moment. There was never anything out of place, nothing extraordinary, but he still looked all the same.

At least twice a week, Aizawa woke up on the couch, hangovers varying in intensity with what they drank and how late their movies went. He'd only seen a fraction of Yagi's archive, often falling asleep if they chose a second movie. He never seemed to mind, always happy to try again another night or to lend a physical copy when he had one.

Perhaps those discs were what had kept him sated for so long. Though he would never admit it, Aizawa was a magpie at heart, always pocketing something small when he felt the need. It was rarely anything of particular value or merit, often something as small as a ticket stub or a chopstick wrapper, a bottle cap or a gacha that caught his attention as they adventured. Staying at Yagi's place to eat in left little opportunity for such a momento, but slipping the case into his bag always seemed to scratch the itch.

He'd done better, though. He stayed up through the movies, even if it meant getting into an uncomfortable position or chewing the inside of his mouth to keep him awake. It didn't seem to matter to Yagi, but it had come to matter to him the more he respected him, the more intimate their bonding became.

Yagi never stirred when Aizawa snuck into his room. The closet was slightly ajar, the wicker basket inside filled with the week's laundry. It was like a beacon, calling to Aizawa, demanding he peer inside. It wasn't for anything weird, he told himself harshly, just to see what sort of clothes he liked.

The closet was filled mostly with fresh shirts and slacks carefully hung and ready for the week ahead. He was the sort of man, Aizawa decided, who enjoyed a uniform. It made sense, he supposed, when one stopped to think about the life he lived. Still, it wasn't terribly satisfying, and he crawled inside for a better look.

Or rather, he would've, were it not for the stacked boxes on the opposite end. They were quite large, the word 'DONATE' written in large letters on each side in black marker. Their siren song called to him, and Aizawa could not help be steer toward them.

The topmost box was still open and he could easily peer inside and dig around. The first item was soft and thick, feeling not unlike a well-used blanket. Was that what was inside? It seemed logical enough.

It was then that Aizawa noticed the air was too still, the soft, rhythmic snoring gone while he perused. It would be too fitting to have Yagi wake up now, to be standing just over his shoulder, watching him dig through his personal belongings. The bed creaked as its owner rolled, the blankets fluttering as he adjusted them. After a few impossibly long moments, the snoring resumed, though it did nothing for how Aizawa's heart thrummed in his ears.

His retreat was swift, his trophy unconsciously clutched in his hand. He did not look at it until he was safely back in the living room, curling up where he'd fallen asleep once more.

It wasn't a blanket, he realized as he examined his prize, but a sweater. An enormous sweater, stretched out of shape in a few spots and slightly frayed in others. It seemed horribly unfitting at first, thinking of tiny Yagi Toshinori in such a huge amount of fabric. Slowly, Aizawa realized the truth. It was All Might's sweater, not Yagi's.

There was something sad about the sweater now, well-loved and carefully boxed, no longer of any use to the man who had worn it for so many years. Without thinking too hard about it, Aizawa folded it, carefully tucking it into his bag.

If it was to be donated, Yagi would not miss it, he decided, settling back under the blankets that had been draped over him by his host.

Curiosity fully satisfied, he wouldn't move again until Yagi rose, smiling gently and humming to himself as he prepared breakfast. He would never need to know of Aizawa's transgression.

Chapter Text

The sweater was the first, but not the last. Slowly, over the course of some weeks, Aizawa had begun a second wardrobe of his own, consisting almost entirely of stolen clothing. He tried to be practical once he had decided to continue, restricting him to only things he thought he could use.

The idea of using the clothes he stole never came to him consciously. They'd had a lovely morning, watching another, light-hearted film as they ate their breakfast. They parted just before noon, Aizawa making the trek across town toward his own apartment. The morning chill seemed to linger on the streets, the smell of autumn on the breeze. He pulled the sweater out of his bag as he waited for the train, giving it the first look in the light.

It was fairly non-descript, cream colored with chunky cables and honeycomb running down the front. He slipped it on without much deliberation, happy for the extra layer he hadn't thought to bring with him.

Logically, almost pathologically, he chose the following pieces he stole, trending toward sweaters and knits, giant-sized thermals and argyle cardigans. The deeper he dug, the more different sorts of clothing he found, claiming a pair of thick jogging pants and at least two pairs of flannel pajama bottoms.

With the initial exception, he had not worn a single piece outside of his home, tying the drawstrings tight before settling in for an evening of grading or email writing, killing time watching cat videos in his growing collection of huge, poncho-like jumpers. It was cozy, and it made him feel quite safe, in a strange way.

He wouldn't think too much about why.

Not yet.

It would just make things weird.

Yagi never seemed to notice anything was amiss, new clothes stacked in the box every few weeks. It seemed like he was slowly going through some stash of clothes, pulling boxes from storage and sorting through what was still useful. His closet still boasted a collection of Yagi Toshinori-sized officewear and little else, so the number that passed that mark seemed to be very low.

That suited Aizawa just fine.

The old things were charming and perfectly worn, even if they were too large and sporty for Aizawa's personal taste. He grew to love them, looking forward to returning home from their bonding to slip into them.

They smelled like his apartment, seemingly unwashed before boxing, a soothing mixture of cologne and Yagi himself. It was a fitting end to each day they didn't spend together, a little piece of the experience to have at home whenever he needed it.

Perhaps he stole so many more because the smell faded too much, leaving him with just his own scent and stale deodorant. That wasn't particularly appealing, though he supposed it wasn't anything offensive either. It just wasn't the same.

He tried, once, to take a more recently worn piece home. Yagi's collection of white button-down shirts would be easy to take from the hamper and replace, assuring a steady stream of his comforting scent, but Aizawa was too broad to actually fit them. That night, he'd merely kept it by his pillow, nuzzling into it as he wound down to sleep.

It wasn't until he rose to wash his hand that he considered just what sort of man he was becoming.

Though he'd never done anything to the shirt save smelling it, he washed it twice before returning it. He was scared, perhaps, that Yagi would notice his own scent, a few beads of sweat that may betray what he had done.

It felt like a much closer call than any near-wake that he'd snuck through.

So came the end of his habitual theft, the collection he'd amassed enough for now. To admit he needed more would be to address what he fought so hard to avoid, confronting himself in a way he was unable to.

There was no way he could admit that he'd fallen in love with Yagi Toshinori.

Chapter Text

The knock at his door sent a jolt through him, overly loud to compete with his headphones. Aizawa pulled them off, quickly pausing the movie he was watching before heading to the door. He cracked it as he answered, brows furrowed in confusion.

Yamada, who had been trying so hard to peer in through the peep hole, rocked back on his feet, a wide, lopsided grin tugging at his lips.

"Were you seriously still asleep?" he asked, tone teasing and harsh.

"No," Aizawa muttered hotly, lips tight. "I was watching a movie."

"Is it any good?" Yamada asked, looking at his nails in a deliberate gesture Aizawa couldn't quite read.


"Better than keeping your date with your besties?"

The words hit him like a sucker punch, Yamada's smug pout only hastening his flush.

"Shit," Aizawa mumbled, slapping his pockets in an attempt to find his phone. He turned around, retreating into the apartment to figure out where it was. He should've had a reminder set, it should've gone off to tell him. What happened?

"Uh-huh," Yamada said, clicking his tongue to scold his friend. He let the door slip shut behind him, waiting on the tile for Aizawa to figure out where he'd gone so wrong.

The rogue phone was in his bedroom, forgotten on the charger when he got up. He'd gone to finish the movie he'd started two days before and slept through, finally able to appreciate it in its entirety, or so he'd thought. There were no less than a dozen alerts on his phone, mostly texts from Yamada, though there were a couple from Kayama as well, and the two reminders that he'd never heard hours prior.

Aizawa returned thoroughly embarrassed, flustered in a way that he had not been in years.

"So are we still on?" Yamada asked casually, rocking on his heels where he waited.

"Yes, we are," Aizawa agreed. "Let me rinse off and change."

Yamada cocked his head, brows knitting.

"Are you joking? That's the most stylish I've ever seen you. I mean, you need a little help, but you always need a little help."

"What?" Aizawa asked flatly, confused. He looked down, his mouth immediately pressing into a thin line.

He was wearing one of Yagi's discarded undershirts with a soft, well-worn cardigan hanging from his shoulders over it. A pair of Yagi's jogging pants hung on his hips, barely staying up with the knotted string.

"Trés chic," Yamada asserted, his head tilting in the opposite direction, his grin slowly returning. "You need some cool accessories, but I'm impressed. Are you turning over a new leaf?"

All of the praise seemed so genuine, but Aizawa burned in shame and confusion. He was unsure which was worse, being mistaken for fashionable or admitting to where his oversized ensemble had come from.

"Actually," Yamada continued, obviously not deterred by the lack of response. "Let me give you these and I'll grab a pair of your boots."

The blond deftly untied and removed his high-tops, placing them neatly by the door. He welcomed himself in, passing his stunned friend without a moment's hesitation.

"You still have those speed-lace ones I bullied you into getting back in highschool, I bet~!"

A sudden cold chill ran through him as he heard his closet slide open and Aizawa nearly tripped over himself in his haste to prevent what he was already too late for.

"Holy shit, Shouta!" Yamada announced loudly, the sound of the hangers scraping the bar enough to make Aizawa's stomach clench. "What is all of this stuff!?"

"I can explain," Aizawa began, though he had no idea how he was going to.

"Um, yeah, you need to," his companion agreed, pulling one of extra large button-downs from the closet. It had alternating stripes of white and navy running its length, tiny red accents matching the buttons running down the front. "This is cute as hell."


"Also, this one! Oh, and this one, this I might have to steal from you..."

"No!" he blurted, the sound of his voice enough to shock them both into silence. He swallowed thickly, trying to steady himself. "Stop going through my closet. If you want new clothes, you can get them later. These are mine."

Yamada held Aizawa's gaze, his lips pursed slightly in thought. He replaced the shirts that he had begun collecting, saying nothing, watching his friend for any other reaction.

"Fine," he said, shrugging. "Just the boots, then. You will look amazing with my sneakers, trust me."

"Fine," Aizawa agreed, a bit more hasty than he would've preferred. "Let's go."

Kayama's reaction was not unlike Yamada's when they finally arrived at the bottom of the stairwell. She cooed and fawned on him, quickly circling him to get a full idea of his new, amazing fashion sense.

"This is amazing," she said, biting her lip, giving him one final look from head to toe. "Like, wow. Super, super hot."

"Right?!" Yamada agreed, gesturing almost angrily at the less-than-thrilled Aizawa. "Also, he's not sharing any of his cool new clothes, so we're definitely heading to Shibuya."

"No way," Kayama cut in. "Roppongi."

"Both, then," Yamada countered, grinning again.

Aizawa stood, hiding in his scarf, quietly horrified at how his life seemed to be unraveling before his eyes. They bickered over their new change in plans and he could only endure, knowing he had to do anything to keep his secret. One day of this, then he could do something to prevent it in the future. Anything to prevent this from getting out.

He barely moved as Kayama approached him, her hair clip in hand. She collected and twisted his hair, fastening it in a messy bun that fully completed his hipster-hobo aesthetic.

"I'd fuck him," she said, admiring her handiwork.

"Same," Yamada agreed.

Chapter Text

The constant shame wore thin the more Aizawa was fussed and dressed by his best friends, submitting to the humiliating glow-up they intended to put him through. Dozens of photos were taken that day, half in the 'stylish' outfit he'd been lounging in, the other in a wide variety of additional clothing they pulled off the rack. They'd taken it as a sign that he finally wanted to be seen, though nothing was further from the truth. He endured it, however, straight to the end. He had to play along to some degree or else risk his secret coming to light.

Nothing could be worse than that.

That's what he thought, anyway.

He wasn't there when Yagi approached Yamada.

He had discreetly intersected him before Yamada could leave his desk for the cafeteria, furiously scribbling something on an essay. He waited, holding his bento carefully, not wanting to interrupt. Yamada nearly knocked him out with the force he pushed away from his desk, the chair hitting Yagi hard enough to stagger him.

"Why were you standing there!?" Yamada asked, more in panic than anger, making certain that his unexpected associate was steady on his feet and no worse for the wear.

"It's fine, it's fine," Yagi reassured, though there was a tear in his eye. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have been looming. I need to speak with you, if... if you have a moment."

"Yeah, of course," Yamada agreed, chewing his lip. "What's up?"

"It's about Aizawa."

Yamada pursed his lips, nodding.

"I hope you don't mind, but I saw your photos on social media," Yagi continued, quite uncomfortable with the situation. "Your account is highly recommended."

"The highest!" Yamada agreed, tilting his head with a smirk. "You don't have to apologize for that! But what does that have to do with Aizawa?"

"Your photos with him, last weekend," Yagi clarified.

"Oh, the spam? Sorry about that! We were just having fun! He never dresses up, so we had to take the chance when we had it!"

Yagi shifted his weight, humming a soft, non-commital sound.

"Those clothes… where did you find them?"

"All over!" Yamada gestured broadly. "We were jumping the train all day to get him into different things! He looked like some Korean model, so we even ended up in Shin-Okubo!"

"There were also photos from later, weren't there?"

"From his apartment?" Yamada asked, tilting his head the opposite direction as he thought about it. "No clue about any of those outfits. We were just raiding his closet. You should probably ask him where he got them."

"Ah!" Yagi exclaimed, suddenly animated, waving his hands defensively. "N-no! I couldn't!"

Yamada stared, brows knitting.


"Th-those," Yagi said softly, clearing his throat. "The photos inside his apartment. It's very sparse, and those clothes…"

"Crazy to think he spends it all on fashion he never wears, right?"

"He didn't purchase them," Yagi finally said, holding his bento firmly in both hands, worrying the knot absently in his fingers. "They're… I believe they are… second-hand."

"Second-hand?" Yamada repeated, seeming not to follow.

Yagi seemed almost overwhelmed, ashamed to be having this conversation but unable to step away from it.

"I find myself worried about Aizawa," he allowed, looking away. "With such an empty apartment and wearing second-hand clothing… I worry that something may be wrong… that perhaps… I could help with…"

The silence stretched between them, Yamada doing nothing to save Yagi from himself. He allowed it to fester, waiting to see if there was anything else that Yagi wished to reveal before he made any comments.

Ultimately, Yagi shrunk back, his pale cheeks burning. He opened his mouth to speak, to apologize, but Yamada cut him off.

"Old habits die hard, eh?" he said cheerfully, shrugging and collecting his phone from his desk. "Shouta is just like that. He doesn't spend much money on stuff. He's into spending it on experiences, like food and drinks and hours at the cat café."

Yagi watched him collect what he needed to head to the cafeteria, not interrupting. Yamada turned to him, a wry, slightly mischievous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Don't worry about the clothes if it's not a problem for you," he added, music starting on his headphones.

Yagi opened his mouth to speak once more, but Yamada dodged past him with a quick wave, calling back as he disappeared into the hallway.

"He used to be more into my style. Sometimes his taste changes, I guess!"

Chapter Text

Each stolen piece of clothing had been thoroughly washed after his impromptu fashion show. It was a paranoid move, he knew, but it was the only way he could reconcile the horror that had befallen him. Aizawa was terrified that they would want to repeat the performance, that they would be sober and thorough, that one or both of them would notice the strange scents still clinging to the fibers.

It was for the best, he knew. He knew he should've done it after the dirty shirt fiasco, but it was hard to give them all up at once. They weren't as potent, just a constant, faint reminder of the man who had once owned them. He needed to nip that in the bud, anyway. There was no way he could allow that to get any worse. It was the worst way to be a friend, after all.

Some of the pieces were innocuous enough that they'd made it into his wardrobe, though he would never wear them to meet with Yagi for a movie night or chance them at work. They were fine for days like these though, when he was only ducking out of his apartment to grab cheap, ready-to-eat snacks from the corner convenience store.

His phone buzzed as he waited to cross the street, the faint chime of an incoming text audible from in his pocket. He shifted the bag to rest in the crook of his arm, fishing it out as the small group at his corner began to move into the intersection.

This is sudden, but are you free?

It was from Yagi, though it was unusually short.

 yeah u ok?

Yes, I'm fine! Are you home?

Aizawa's lips pressed thin, navigating around the people blocking him with practiced ease.

not rn but in a min

That explains it!

His blood ran cold, the icy fingers of adrenaline closing around his heart, stealing the breath from his lungs. His apartment building loomed before him, suddenly ominous and full of danger.



His pace slowed to a halt, eyes crawling up to his floor, afraid of what may be waiting for him.


Take your time! I brought you a gift, but I'm not in a hurry!

There it was. His worst fears realized in this moment. Aizawa looked down at himself, the thick sweater hanging from his frame, draping flatteringly in the way only a well-worn garment could.

Yagi Toshinori was at his door and he was wearing his clothes.

His heart pounded, eyes unblinking and staring at his phone.


r u at my apt?

I'm sorry to stop in unannounced! I won't stay!

Before he realized it, he was setting the bag down in a rush, unpacking it onto the sidewalk. He hooked his hands in the warm fabric, dragging it frantically over his head. The icy chill of the winter air hit his stomach, barely kept out by the thin fabric of his t-shirt as he tugged it back into place. He balled the sweater quickly, shoving it into the bottom of the bag and hastily covering it in his convenience feast. It was a precarious balancing act, to be sure, but it allowed him the ability to ignore the shock the cold gave his body.

The stairs were an undertaking, his apartment too far away and never close enough all at once. The door to the stairwell squeaked as he pushed it open, the tall, thin form of Yagi Toshinori waiting just in front of his door. He turned to look as the door opened, smiling his sheepish, toothy grin.

"I'm sorry to impose!" he called.

"It's fine," Aizawa muttered, glad that the wind had reddened his face before this embarrassment had a chance to. He closed the distance stiffly, trying not to look at Yagi as he opened the door.

The moment he was inside, Aizawa stepped on his heels, abandoning his boots by the door as he hurried to hide his bag. He was vaguely aware of Yagi saying something to him, but couldn't hear him over his own panic. The entire bag, sweater and all, went directly into his fridge. He whipped around as soon as the door closed, gently holding it shut with his fingers.

Yagi waited by the door, looking very uncomfortable, holding a bag of his own in both hands.

"I can leave right away," he said, very likely repeating what he'd said before.

"It's fine," Aizawa answered, more to himself than to Yagi. He moved stiffly across the apartment, taking the bag from his companion and gesturing to the couch. "I wasn't expecting company, that's all."

"It's rude of me," Yagi admitted, still unsure if he should bother coming inside properly. "I just got too excited to give these to you, so I came straight here."

"What is it?" Aizawa asked as he sat, peering down into the bag now that he was settled.

He immediately wanted to die.

The need to leap from the window to the street below was overwhelming. There was absolutely no better way to deal with the way this nightmare was unfolding. If his thawing skin wasn't stinging, he would've assumed it to be just that: a terrible nightmare that his subconscious was forcing him to endure.

Inside the bag rested a few thick sweaters, all in size 5XL-Long, carefully folded and stacked.

Yagi must have been able to feel the change in the air, his hands clasped before him and smile forced.

"I thought," he said carefully. "That these would fit your new style well. They're a similar brand and the same size. You usually wear darker colours, so they will fit your image better, I think."

"Are these…" Aizawa began, trailing off as his gaze lifted to where Yagi stood.

"N-no, I thought that might be improper," Yagi hastily replied, clearing his throat. "They're new. I bought them for you. You looked really cool in those photos but they weren't quite the same style as the ones from your closet."

Aizawa couldn't reply, though he wanted to echo 'your closet' verbatim, to confess now and submit fully to the nightmare. To beg, perhaps, that this never go beyond this point, and to offer never to speak again outside of a professional setting. Instead, he just stared grimly, trying not to make things worse.

"It's fine, really," Yagi offered, seeming to buckle under Aizawa's intensity. "I haven't told anyone. I'm good at keeping secrets."

Aizawa couldn't help but shake his head slowly as Yagi laughed, his awkward joke the only thing that he could manage to lighten the air. It settled heavily again as he stopped laughing, everything far too still.

"…in any case," he continued. "I think you should wear them if you'd like to. I was going to donate them, so I'm glad that you enjoy them. They suit you."

"He said he wasn't going to post those photos," Aizawa finally managed, his voice cracking slightly with how dry his throat had become.

"They were wonderful photos!" Yagi quickly added, waving his hands defensively. "That's why I wanted to support you in your new style. You don't have to wear my second-hand clothes now, so maybe you'll feel more comfortable dressing up."

"I don't want these," Aizawa said flatly. The words almost seemed to hurt Yagi, his flinch more visible than he likely would've wanted.

"Really, I insist!"

"No," Aizawa said, voice more firm. "You don't get it. I don't want these. I'm not trying to be stylish, I'm being gross. I took your clothes because they were yours. No one was supposed to know."

Yagi froze, unmoving for a few moments before saying simply, "Ah, I see."

"One of your sweaters is in my fridge right now."

"That seems counter-intuitive."

It was strange how infuriating it was to be around Yagi. He seemed to be taking this all in stride, totally unaffected by the bizarre, stalkerish way Aizawa had abused his friendship.

"It was better than you catching me in it."

"I'm sure you were much warmer with it on," Yagi said mildly. "I'm sure you looked nice."

"Stop saying that," Aizawa replied defensively, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "I don't need you to flatter me. I know I'm disgusting and I'll stop it, I promise."

"I'm not trying to flatter you," Yagi explained quietly. "I mean it. It makes me happy to see you enjoying the clothes. You really do look cool."

"I stole your clothes and I used to smell them all the time because they smelled like you. How's that for flattering?"

To that, Yagi shrugged. "People I've liked far less have done far stranger things."

"Yeah, but were they creepily in love with you?"

"Maybe," Yagi answered, unphased. "But I didn't blame them for it, and I certainly didn't feel for them as I do for you."

The implications of Yagi's words smacked the words from Aizawa's mouth, sending him reeling. His mind buzzed, trying to decide how much to read into them, what they could possibly mean.

"How do you feel?" he finally managed, mouth terribly dry.

"I'm not certain," Yagi answered with an easier smile, seeming relieved to elaborate. "I like the time we spend together. I enjoy cooking for you and appreciate you watching my entire catalogue of films. I wish that we had become closer before things got so serious, but I don't regret the future I see ahead of me as much as I used to. I want you to feel comfortable with me again, and I want you to know how my heart skips when I see you in my clothes. I hope that you'll wear them fondly, even if it's not around me."

The air felt truly lighter then, the silence less oppressive. Aizawa swallowed, still trying to process all that had been said.

"This is the worst love confession I think I've ever heard of," he said after a minute.

"I've heard far worse," Yagi offered gently. "But it's the only one I've ever returned."

Chapter Text

"I think it looks cute."

"Are you sure? It's… not quite…"

"That's why it's cute, so hush."

Yagi turned before the mirror, somewhat embarrassed at the way the clothes fit him. Both shirt and pants were too short, though the latter could at least be cuffed over the calf to ease the tightness that moving caused. The former was a total loss, effectively a crop-top that showed off Yagi's hollow stomach and rippling scars.

"It's a little cold," he said after a moment, twisting back and forth again, surveying all of the spots that the cold air could travel.

"So grab a sweater instead," Aizawa said, chewing the inside of his lip as he imagined how it would hang from him. Within a few seconds, his vision was standing before him, Yagi's thin shoulders allowing the open neckline to sag terribly. It caught on his elbows, most of his chest on display from his prominent collarbone to his nipples.

"Ah," Yagi said simply, twisting around again to assess the situation, frowning slightly at his shoulderblades.

"Hang on," Aizawa interrupted, closing the distance between them. Before Yagi could react, he ducked down, pulling the extra fabric away from his body and over his head. In moments, he'd shuffled his way through the folds, his face peering up from the neck of the sweater.

Yagi flushed, his face pinkening as Aizawa's arms encircled him, his awkward, toothy smile showing his satisfaction in his decision.

"I don't think this will be a practical way to wear this," the blond mumbled.

"I think it's the most practical way, especially if we're marathoning movies for the rest of the night," Aizawa countered.

"I may not be able to concentrate on them," Yagi admitted, his cheeks burning.

"That's fine, too," Aizawa countered, raising on his toes to press a kiss to the bottom of Yagi's chin.