Midoriya is sweet and deferring, until he isn't, and if Paul were to be entirely honest with himself - there's a possibility he tests that tipping point. There's a possibility, woven through the soft, lilting sound he makes when Midoriya grips his hair in a gentle but firm hand, that he enjoys the tumble down this particular hillside. He melts against Midoriya, tension unspooling out of him like cut wire, and exults in being overwhelmed.

When Midoriya pulls back, Paul is dizzy-eyed, nearly falling after his retreat like someone tugged by gravity. Midoriya doesn't like being stared at, as he says, so Paul flits his gaze lightly from the barest imprint of his blood staining Midoriya's laughing mouth. He doesn't need to keep looking. He's already inscribed it to memory.

"I don't like being stared at," Paul protests, as Midoriya's steady arm secures his shoulders and guides him along, "I'm used to it. There's a difference."

He had tried not to think of the audience, to disappear into the stakes between them and them only. He'd come close, but the essential awareness of observation remained. It's only this far out of sight he relinquishes the facade completely, leaning fully into the much stronger boy's side.