“It’s so sad, isn’t it, Midnight? I don’t think he has anything else.”
“You’re telling me, Mic. But what can we do? Even I’m not enough of a sadist to bring it up.”
Toshinori jerked up when the hands grabbed his arms from behind and lifted his arms up and held them straight out at his sides. Toshinori swallowed the yelp and looked over his shoulder, “Eraserhead?”
“Don’t move,” the other Hero mumbled under his breath. He whipped out his scarf and grabbed the end, he slid his finger down it and straightened it, putting one end on the edge of his shoulder and stretching it across his back. “This’ll take a minute.”
“May I ask what you’re doing?” Toshinori kept his posture rigid as Aizawa moved around him, mumbling under his breath as he continued using his scarf to measure the lengths of Toshinori’s arms, legs, and waist. “Aizawa?”
He stopped at Toshinori’s front, staring at his belt line with a scowl before mumbling, “I’ll guess that part.”
Aizawa walked away without another word, leaving Toshinori in the hallway both confused and late for his meet up with young Midoriya.
“Someone has to tell him, Mic. It’s been half a year and he’s still wearing those clothes like…like he’ll need them.”
“I know, I know! But I still. I don’t want to be the bad guy here and tell him? Why don’t you do it?”
“What part of even I’m not enough of a sadist to do that did you miss?”
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Toshinori shouted as he hurried to the main door. He’d heard the bell ring the first time, but had been hooked up to his monitors and it took a while to disconnect. The bell continued to buzz, the guest knowing Toshinori had to be home. “I’m here!”
He opened the door and met the bagged eyes of Aizawa with his hair back. He muttered, “You even say that here?”
Toshinori stared and looked behind him. The man had arrived alone, with no sight of Present Mic or Lady Midnight or even a student. Toshinori failed to hide the confusion as he shrugged his shoulders. “Can I help you?”
“I’m your intervention,” Aizawa said, holding up his arms. Toshinori gaped at the garment bag draped over his shoulder and the multiple shopping bags he held. “They should all fit, but I took a shot in the dark to which side you dress when I told the tailor, but that means it’s fifty-fifty.”
“Intervention?” Toshinori asked.
“Intervention,” Aizawa said. He continued staring and asked, “Are you going to let me in?”
“Of course!” Toshinori said, scrambling back. The no-nonsense Pro let himself in, carrying the bags. “What are these, Aizawa?”
“Clothes,” Aizawa replied.
The younger man draped the garment bag over the couch back and unzipped it. He pulled out a garish suit in salmon, before following it with something more normal in black. He set them aside and went for the bags and unpacked a variety of clothes varying from the most tacky things he’d ever set his eyes on with cat print and leaves to simple tops and bottoms. The clothes kept coming, more stuffed in those bags than he thought possible. Aizawa didn’t answer past his one word response, setting the folded shirts, pants, and undergarments on the couch cushions.
“And why do you have clothes?” Toshinori asked, hoping to gather more information out of the man and his strange behavior.
Aizawa finished setting out the last of his now sizable stack of folded, neat clothes with not a sign of a price tag in sight. He grabbed the empty bags and folded them, leaving only the garment bag on the chair next to the coffee table.
“Young Aizawa, why did you bring me clothes?” Toshinori asked again, feeling his frustration grow. He was tired, he wanted to go back to bed and Aizawa was acting odd. “I don’t understand.”
Aizawa strode up to Toshinori and reached out. He plucked at the edge of Toshinori’s shirt and pulled out. It kept going, leaving a near full foot between the fabric and Toshinori’s chest. He whispered, “Because it’s time to let these go.”
Toshinori sucked in a breath.
“You’ve helped a hundred people start their new beginnings,” Aizawa said, “I didn’t think you’d need a push to start your own, but here we are.”
He dropped the shirt and patted Toshinori’s shoulder. “You should know your size now, so next time you go shopping remember it.”
Toshinori covered his mouth with his hand, feeling his chest tighten. Aizawa let himself out with a soft click of the door. Alone, Toshinori let out the first slight tear before he walked closer to the couch.
He picked up the shirt with the ugly cat print and stretched it out. It was tiny but when he held it to his chest, it matched.
Toshinori sat, disturbing the neat piles and took a shaky breath before he cried warm tears into the shirt.
He’d always known Aizawa was a kind man, but he hadn’t realized just how much.
“This is worse,” Kayama said, gaping at Yagi with her mouth open. “So much worse. Oh my gosh, he looks like he got dressed in the dark in a bargain bin of the rejected design pile.”
“It’s certainly,” Hizashi paused, wincing as he too stared openly. “Something.”
“I think it fits him,” Shouta said, smiling behind his scarf. Yagi blushed as he stood before his favorite students and showed off his new printed t-shirt with the adorable kitten pattern he’d matched smartly with the plaid pants. Shouta turned to Hizashi said, “More importantly, it’s the right size.”
The shirt clung to his form, not so tight fitting that his lean and lost muscle was revealed, but could never be mistaken for “baggy.” The slacks hung perfectly straight, the bottom collar where it was supposed to be at the heal with just enough give to be adjusted for whatever shoes he chose to wear. Aizawa had been meticulous with his measurements, going so far as the show the tailor a photo he’d taken in secret to make sure that everything would fit properly.
Toshinori’s odd body type made shopping difficult Aizawa had discovered—he couldn’t blame the man for putting it off for so long.
“I wanted him to start wearing clothes that fit,” Hizashi said, crossing his arms, “But if I’d known he had your taste in clothes I would have held an intervention.”
Aizawa snorted under his scarf and knocked his friend in the shoulder with the back of his hand.
If he only knew.