deercountry | 'cause I live for the fire

"I've trained too! I trained... and created to pilot the Evangelion and I was good at it. Everything done to me was for that purpose. But I could train for other things too. You just have to teach me."

He makes a move to shove Midoriya, not away, but down, as though in some sort of grapple. Like he's trying to prove that he's capable of the fight just like the other boys. Kaworu certainly does not have the muscle to push Midoriya down so he'd only topple over if he allowed it to happen. Still, Kaworu goes all in, trying to climb on him and straddle his waist.

"Then we could fight. Then you'd see me and be impressed. Then you'd kiss me like that too."

Midoriya struggles to find the line between Kaworu being genuinely interested in something and Kaworu simply wanting the end result. He also grapples with his strong aversion to anything that might be like what was done to Kaworu in the past.

"Then I'd like to--oof--" It's like being tackled by a younger version of himself, the small and skinny boy in the memories. He lets him push him down to the dead grass, because he lets him get away with so much--teasing him, being rude, tossing objects at Paul's head--and usually only with a mild chastising. He clutches at his hands, to hold them rather than to hold them away. Midoriya's voice sits lodged as a lump somewhere in his throat; he's saving his true indignation for the karate teacher.

"Did what he said really get to you? He's a weak person." Johnny Lawrence is a man very skilled at martial arts, but Midoriya says this with conviction. All Might taught him better. "It's here what's strong too." He firmly presses his square palm over the hum of Kaworu's S^2 organ. "And he's missing what you've got. I already admire you. When we train together--when we do anything--never forget that."

Something hard and malachite slips into his eyes, because everyone has a threshold. "But you don't get to tell me what I'll do. I can kiss you like that whenever I want--um, with your permission..."

He feels very strongly about all this, but the delivery... In the end, he is a nerd.

His hands melt in Midoriya's strong grip. No move to resist, just sinking in closer, closing all spaces between them, letting delicate and pale fingers be held in safety and protection.

"No. It..." Kaworu's expression furrows, trying to find words for emotions that he's never felt before. "I don't know. I want... you to admire me. To think of me as your equal. And... for others to see that. I feel like no one sees me as I am. Except you. And Paul."

He squeezes a hand.

"Kiss me now then."

Kaworu, who usually seems so sure, is not, but by now Midoriya has seen his true feelings break through the water’s surface many times. His eyes examine all of him, patiently watching him struggle to explain. He collects every word with the same care Kaworu kissed his tears. He squeezes Kaworu's pliant hand back tight enough that it feels like an extension of his own, bones lying together, but never hurting him. (Kaworu needs those to play piano and to softly cup his face, often catching Midoriya off guard when he does so, even when he sees it coming.)

"If people underestimated me, I'd work hard and prove them wrong. Maybe we both carry our past a little too obviously. But you know, you've changed a lot since I first met you. I have too. And our scars mean we've survived." Quieter, "You taught me that."

Midoriya can be a pushover, literally, but he doesn't entertain petulant lashing out anymore. Baring of one's feelings, however, is always respected, never refused. Perhaps he was too busy admiring Kaworu's resilience--and spoiling him to counterbalance his childhood. That's the past again; it should inform, not get in the way. The tide rises to carry three boats.

He sits up and winds an arm around Kaworu's waist to draw him close. Still clutching his hand, from the waist up they look like dancers captured in a still photo. He presses his mess of green curls against his forehead, mingling their breath. He releases his hand and buries his fingers in Kaworu's hair. Still he hesitates, because he's unused to jumping in so quickly. (And he has to admit, the moments before the plunge have their own simmering heat, his green eyes examining Kaworu again, closer, more thoroughly.)

He finds his lips and works them apart with his own softly as petals as he closes his eyes. He presses his mouth firmly, then harder still. His hands can hold him, protect him, and look out for him, even as they find hollows to clasp tight in a way that is not gentle.

Kaworu lets Midoriya lift him up, only shifting so his hand slides to the gentle curve of his back, a movement of only a few centimeters that somehow makes everything entirely more romantic. Then Midoriya changes the narrative, suddenly twisting strong fingers in Kaworu's hair and pulling him close. He can feel the warm breath on his skin, and for a moment he wonders if Midoriya won't be able to follow through, before lips, soft but firm, are pressed against his mouth.

He makes a soft sound, pleased and needy, pressing himself closer to the other boy, feeling his firm muscles against his own thin frame. One hand is still intertwined with his. Then he pushes in with his tongue, taking more, wanting more, needing more and knowing that Midoriya will give it to him.

He clutches him close with not an inch of air between them, as if even air is an impediment solid enough that it must be pushed aside. There must be no barrier between the two stubbornly surviving sparks of life in each of their chests and the scars on their bodies. Kaworu's eyelashes tickle his freckles. His short nails leave light delicate crescents on the back of Kaworu's hand. He slides his tongue against his, mouth full and submerged in the taste of him. He hums with a hungry rippling heat early summer can't match.

His heart outpaces his breath, and he comes up for air. He urgently whispers, lips and teeth still pressed against Kaworu's,

"You don't have to feel alone like that again. I've got you."

Kaworu was with someone when he died in that memory, but it feels like a kind of loneliness to see him believe he had to leave like that. Can't a hand grasp someone without one of them having to die and the other having to be left behind?

"Don't let me go."

The words are whispered into the soft crook of Midoriya's neck, soft enough to be innocent but ticklish enough to be playful. He rocks his hips against muscular thighs, trying to shove Midoriya onto his back so he can climb on him once more like he claimed the hero as something of his own. Or maybe... he changes his mind, twisting his fingers in a t-shirt with some embarrassing phrase on it and pulling Midoriya down on top of him like a protective cage.

He hums against the soft susurration in assent, vibration eddying within his vulnerable throat. Letting go of him seems like a patent impossibility--not an option, not even an entertained thought. He's ready to push back against Kaworu's hips, clutch and move with him like twined fibers in a thread.

Instead, his shirt is pulled. (It reads, this is a shirt.) A small noise of surprise escapes his lips, but it's easy to follow his reflex and collapse into shielding Kaworu. If the sun is too hot, he will give him shade. If a cold sea wind blows in, he will clutch him close and warm.

He slips one hand under the curve of his lower back. The other strokes from his cheek into his hair, mussing it. His hands are always a little more sure than the rest of him. His mouth and body find the contact they had just seconds ago. He copies Kaworu's move--it's how he learns, it's how he admires--and slips his tongue in.

He has Kaworu pressed onto the dry crackling grass, but it is Midoriya who feels headily trapped and at his mercy. He answers a call as inexorable as the tide.

'cause I live for the fire | June Catch-all

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