A stroke to the arm, for example, is one thing, but Paul's hands (and a few medical supplies) burnishing over his sides and the two long cords of muscle of his lower back are another entirely. It stutters Midoriya's breathing. He gathers Paul to him, and this time he is not gentle. He grips him close, bruises and all, and pokes the tip of his tongue past Paul's lip to meet his teeth.

It's not pain--there and gone again on his lip like a promise--that draws out an abrupt hum in the back of his throat. To Midoriya, pain is pain, nothing more. It's the person doing it and the interlocking jockeying feelings behind it in the wake of a competitive physical activity that deepen Midoriya's kiss longer and more firmly than he meant it to be. He closes a fist in Paul's hair but doesn't pull; Kaworu's always going on about how handsome he is, true of course, and Midoriya believes that includes those dark curls.

He draws his face back with a quiet stream of laughter meant to be light. It burbles with headiness instead. His lower lip is pinker than the rest of him, which is saying something. There's a tiny smear of Paul's blood on his mouth again.

"I'm not like you, I don't like being stared at." His one complaint, just the one, but something he finds himself unable to concede. He slings one arm more firmly around Paul's shoulders and turns to tug him away from the arena altogether into the cool, violet-shadowed interior beyond the heat-dusted exit.