Standing at the mall's west entrance, Aizawa wiped sweaty palms against his black jeans. His heartbeat was faster than normal, skin clammy, breath uneven. He'd been tempted to call Recovery Girl, call the date off. Until he realized he wasn't sick—he was nervous.
He hadn't been nervous meeting Izuku at the café. But that... it had been an intelligence-gathering mission, and that is how Aizawa had gone into it: as a normal extension of his underground hero work, and not a date.
This was explicitly, unequivocally, a date.
He hadn't been on a date in nearly eight years; the last one had been with an analyst from Endeavor's agency, a casual first meetup in a well-lit public place (thankfully). It had resulted in a hasty escape, a restraining order, charges of stalking, a disinterest in dating as being more hassle than it was worth, and an eight-year lull in Aizawa's dating life.
But this time, Aizawa was actually interested. No, scratch that. Aizawa was terrified of fucking this up. This had... potential. In just the two days since their first face-to-face meeting at the café, he'd already imagined Izuku in his bed—twice. And not even in an R-rated way; the green-haired vigilante waking up with messy bed head and worse morning breath, smiling sleepily as Aizawa brought him a morning coffee, cuddling up with a cat that they owned together, playing rock- paper-scissors to decide who would cook breakfast and doing it together anyway. Potential.
Aizawa felt a smile stretch his face as Izuku came into view. A real smile, the one even his best friend found somewhat creepy, the one he was self-conscious of, the one that strangers would call unhinged. He didn't care—and the grin grew even larger as it was met with a matching one on the younger man's face. Painfully bright, comfortably warm, like coming home.
The boy himself was dressed... in clothes, was probably the most charitable thing that Aizawa could say. Unlike the slacks and button-down he'd worn at the café, the fashion disaster approaching him somehow made the situation feel more real. Less like a daydream and more like a sign: you can really have this.
With a brightly-colored long-sleeve compression shirt and leggings under cargo shorts and a t-shirt helpfully labeled 't-shirt,' Aizawa suspected his fashion-forward best friend would have a heart attack at Izuku's outfit. The hero knew the compression layer was probably to cover scars on the vigilante's arms and legs, scars similar to the ones he himself was covered in after years of hero work. Worse, likely, since Aizawa at least wouldn't get suspicious questions asked when going to Recovery Girl or a hospital to clean and stitch up his wounds.
Scars that Aizawa didn't care about. Which is to say, he didn't care visually that Izuku was
scarred; it was a mark of his profession, nothing more and nothing less. He did care that Izuku had gotten hurt—stabbed, shot, scratched—but knew that it would happen again. Aizawa would never stand in the way of Izuku continuing his vigilante work, as much as he wanted to protect the younger man from harm. Afterall, he himself knew that sometimes, saving people was a calling too strong to ignore.
"Shouta," Izuku said, finally standing before the taller man.
"Problem child," the hero replied, schooling his manic smile to something gentler. He leaned down, slowly as to telegraph his moves, before placing a chaste kiss on Izuku's cheek, nearly on the corner of his lips. The heavy exhale from the boy let him know he hadn't overstepped any boundaries—if anything, it was slightly teasing.
"So, um." Izuku looked around at the nearly-empty mall. "Where do we—"
"The suit shop is this way," Aizawa said, starting to head inside the building.
The two men walked side-by-side, hands brushing. Aizawa wanted to hold Izuku's hand—but is that something appropriate for a first date? The hero was about to say fuck convention and go for it, before he froze.
Izuku took a few more steps before noticing the older man was no longer beside him. "Shouta?"
"Fuck fuck fuck," the hero hissed. He grabbed Izuku's hand and spun them around, rushing— nearly running—in the opposite direction. Aizawa looked around, panicking, before seeing a janitor's closet. Trying the handle, finding it unlocked, he tugged Izuku into the room with him and closed the door.
The closet was smaller than Aizawa had thought; he and Izuku were pressed front-to-front in the cramped and dark space.
"Um. Shouta?"
"Sorry?" The man sounded pained, still breathing heavily. "Why are we in a closet?"
"Hizashi's here."
"And... you don't want him to see me? T-t-to be seen with me?"
Aizawa could sense Izuku's shoulders hunching, falling into self-doubt. "Problem child, you fucking idiot." He groped around in the darkness until he found the younger man's cheeks and lowered himself into a kiss—a real kiss, a kiss full of passion, full of future intention. "If you asked, I would even create a HeroBook account just so I could set my status to 'in a relationship.'" As an underground hero, he obviously stayed away from social media, but it was true—he'd do anything if it would reduce Izuku's uncertainty. "I want, more than anything, to be seen with you."
"Then why?"
"Izuku," Aizawa sighed, leaning his forehead against the shorter man's. "Hizashi's first question, after squealing in excitement at the dumb grin I seem to get on my face when I'm around you, is going to be how we met."
"And tha—oh. Ohh."
"Mmhmm."
"So we're just going to hide?"
"It looked like he was getting ready to leave, so we can go back out in a few minutes." "Maybe we should make out for a bit. Like seven minutes in heaven," Izuku said slyly.
"I wouldn't know. I've never played it; Hizashi always preferred card games at parties. You?" The vigilante huffed. "Not the best experience."
Aizawa stiffened slightly. "Did someone—"
"No! Not like that."
"Explain."
"My last year of middle school I got invited to a party. Well, maybe 'invited' isn't the right word; I know now that the invitation was probably slipped into my locker by accident. But I went, stupidly. Optimistically, even, thinking they'd actually wanted me there."
The pro hero moved his hands to rub between the smaller man's shoulder blades. "You don't have to—"
"When it was my turn to 'play,'" he mumbled, "they shoved me in a closet, tossed an angry tanuki (raccoon dog) in with me, and locked us in."
"What the fuck?" "Yeah. So."
"So, you're saying I have nothing to be jealous about?" Aizawa was rewarded when a small laugh slipped out of the other man.
"I don't know, that tanuki was a pretty good kisser—"
"—I'll show you a good kisser—" The pro hero growled playfully and captured Izuku's lips once
more.
The vigilante's arms wrapped around Aizawa's waist, and the older man's stayed around his shoulders. There was none of the grappling, the groping of a high school game. This was two men, knowing what they wanted. Wanting the other, and not just physically. After several minutes they came to a natural pause, resting their foreheads together.
"That was—"
"Yeah."
"You think he's still out there?"
"No, Zashi's got his radio show tonight, so he wouldn't loiter."
"Ah. So you ready to go back out there?"
"But I'm comfortable." From anyone else, the statement would have sounded whiny. From
Aizawa, it sounded matter-of-fact. For him, Izuku was comfort; he was comfortable physically, but also, with the younger man in his arms, he felt emotionally comforted.
"Mmhmm. I'd love to hear that conversation. 'Sorry, Present Mic, for wearing this ratty jumpsuit to your wedding. I was too busy hugging my—' Oh, um. What am I? To you?"
"Whatever you want." Everything. "We can talk about it over dinner, if you need a term." "Okay, yeah, that'd help. Give me a second." Izuku opened the door an inch and peeked out.
"Coast looks clear."
Aizawa ushered them out, grateful the few other people at the mall were so self-absorbed as to not notice the two—now slightly rumpled and kiss-drunk—men stumble out of the closet.
This time the hero wasn't content to walk alongside the vigilante with their hands only brushing together. He reached down and boldly took Izuku's hand, squeezing twice before twining their fingers together. He's cute when he blushes, Aizuku thought, biting back a grin as he caught the younger man's reddening cheeks out of the corner of his eye. And like that, hero-work-scarred hand holding vigilante-work-scarred hand, they made their way to the suiting store.
"Can I help you, sir...s...?" The saleswoman trailed off as she noticed the shorter man (and what the shorter man was wearing).
"I have a final fitting for a suit, under Aizawa. And my... him... here needs something with fast turnaround. By Friday at the lastest."
"Of course, Aizawa-san, if you and your partner would follow me." She led them into a large fitting room and brought in a black suit. After eyeballing Izuku's short-but-muscular form, she left and popped back in with a second suit on a hanger. "We don't have a lot in stock, unfortunately, and nothing else that would fit you, and while there's time for minor tailoring..." She once again trailed off.
Exchanging confused looks, Aizawa and Izuku waited for her to take the plastic covering off the second suit, unsure why she would be apologizing for—
Oh. Aizawa couldn't hold back a snort as the saleswoman exposed the only suit they had that would fit the younger man.
It was black, so that was a point in its favor. It was also a crushed-velvet tonal brocade pattern with satin lapels. At least the pants were less flashy, traditional tuxedo pants with a satin stripe down the sides.
"Like I said, I'm really sorry..."
"N-no, it's f-f-fine, really." Izuku was looking at the suit with a horrified curiosity. "I'll just, uh, try it on?"
"Okay, well, let me know if you need anything..." She stepped out, leaving the two men and their suits alone.
The door closing was the cue Aizawa needed before breaking into low snickers.
"Hey, what're you laughing about, Eraser? You're the one who's got to be seen with me." "You're the one who's got to wear it."
"...oh god, and I'm going to be meeting Present Mic! And Midnight! They're just... amazing pro heroes, but also your best friends. I need to make a good impression—what if they don't like me, and tell you to get rid of me, and—"
"Relax, Izuku." The taller man brought the vigilante n for a hug, resting his head atop the green curls. "First off, Hizashi would never tell me to 'get rid of' someone who makes me happy. And you, problem child, make me happy. Second..." Aizawa sighed, sounding almost disappointed. "Zashi is going to fucking love that suit."
"I make you happy."
"Obviously, brat."
"That's good. You, uh, y-you make me happy too."
"I know." Aizawa smirked. "Now try on your ridiculous suit while I put mine on."
"Yes sir," Izuku said, a jaunty salute before he started taking the suit off the hanger. "What's this about?" he asked, fingering a dark red satin shirt the saleswoman had paired the suit with.
"Hmm?" The pro hero turned around, his black v-neck sweater and undershirt already pooled on the floor. Smirking at Izuku's lip-biting stare, he answered. "My eyes are up here, sweetheart. Save that look for the second date."
The vigilante blushed a violent red. "Sorry." He pulled his gaze away from the hero's toned body and surprising smattering of chest hair.
"I'm assuming she picked it out to match the tie Hizashi's making me wear."
Izuku's eyes temporarily went hazy, likely at the thought of the older man in a tie. "Yeah. Is that okay with you?"
"Very." Aizawa held Izuku's eyes as he unbuckled his jeans and shimmied them down, stepping out of them, until he was clad only in faded black boxer-briefs.
"Oh god," Izuku paled, then reddened again. "I, um..."
"Hey," the hero said, noticing Izuku's panic. "If this is too much, I know we didn't talk about physical potential in our... relationship, so if that's not something you're interested in—that's fine, honestly—but I don't want to make you uncomfortable with—"
"No! That's not—no. I'm, uh, very okay with that, at some point at least. It's just—" Izuku curled his arms around himself. "There are a lot of scars, and I'm—"
"Look at me, problem child. Does it look like I'm afraid of scars?" The man gestured at his own torso, which held evidence of over a decade of hero work. "I would be ignorant to expect you to not be covered in them; I've seen you fight enough to know how reckless you can be with your own safety."
Steeling himself, Izuku nodded before removing his t-shirt and the compression shirt underneath it. 'Scarred' barely began to describe his skin; it seemed like every available inch was covered in some kind of mark. Slash wounds, burns, gunshot puckers. A history of pain, mapped out on beautiful skin.
"I can't wait to get my mouth on those," Aizawa muttered softly.
But not so softly that Izuku didn't hear. "What!?"
"Sorry, that was... that was too much."
"Save it for the s-s-second date, mister."
Aizawa laughed out loud, finally turning to put his own suit on. The two got dressed in companionable silence before facing one another.
The flashy suit fit Izuku perfectly through the shoulders and waist—the saleswoman must have had a measuring quirk. The pants and sleeves, however, were constructed for a much-taller man. At least they would be easy enough to hem.
"Fuck, problem child."
"It's okay?"
"More than. I like it so much I kind of want to tear it off you."
"Pot, kettle."
"I don't think that's quite how the saying is meant to be used."
"Don't care. You look, um, it's very... yeah. Yeah."
"Eloquent."
"Words are hard when I have to look at you, looking like that."
The older man rolled his eyes but seemed pleased by Izuku's reaction. "Should we call her back in?" At Izuku's nod, he opened the door and got the saleswoman's attention.
"Nice, that'll work. Everything feel comfortable?"
"Yes." "Yeah, just a little long." The two men spoke at the same time.
"Great. Let me pin up the sleeves and pants to the right length, and then you can change..." With rapid and practiced movements, she turned Izuku back and forth, rearranging his arms and legs, marking the fabric with chalk pencils, and sticking thin sewing pins to hold folds in place. "Okay, you—" she pointed at Izuku "—leave the suit in here. I'll deliver it to—"
"My work address. It should already be on my account." Aizawa cut in, before turning to Izuku. Hiding uncertainty at how his next statement would be received, he said, "We'll get dressed beforehand together; I'll make sure your suit is ready." To the hero's relief, Izuku didn't seem to mind the order, even flushing a bit at the way the older man took charge.
After the saleswoman stepped back out, the two men changed back into their clothing, sneaking embarrassingly obvious glances at one another, given their stealth-based nighttime occupations. A few times they caught one another's eye, exchanging small smiles. Once they were fully dressed, they returned to the front of the store, Aizawa's suit in hand.
"The total for the second suit will be—"
"My card's already on file. Add it to my tab."
"Shouta," Izuku said, eyes narrowing. "I can afford to buy a suit."
"I know." Aizawa hadn't meant to insult the younger man, but it was clear that was how his offer to pay was being taken. "This is something I—indulge me. Let me take care of you."
"But—"
"—I'd much rather you put that money towards new taser gloves," he said, quiet enough so that only the vigilante could hear him. "Don't think I haven't noticed how the left one is shorting out."
Izuku looked up at the man, voice equally quiet. "Does this really make you—is this really something you want to do?"
"Let me take care of you," Aizawa repeated.
"Okay," the boy said, closing the gap between them and resting his head on the taller man's chest. "Okay."
The hero rumbled in contentment, wrapping an arm around Izuku's back. Making eye contact with the saleswoman who'd been awkwardly standing by, unable to hear their conversation, he said, "On my tab."
"Any tie or pocket square or..."
"That won't be necessary," Aizawa said. The first few buttons unbuttoned, showing a hint of
collarbone...
"Very good, I'll get this delivered to you by Friday. Have a good night..." She trailed off again, giving them a quick smile before heading back towards the fitting room.
"Dinner?" Aizawa asked, suit in one hand, grabbing Izuku's in the other.
At that very moment, the vigilante's stomach growled. The sound, coupled with Izuku's sheepish look, told Aizawa all he needed to know.