Kaworu has teased and scolded Paul in turns nearly as long as they've known each other about Paul's protectiveness over an angel who cannot ever be hurt deeply or long. It's foolish of Paul to prefer to risk his own fragile human self, foolish of him to handle Kaworu with the delicacy of a seashell in his palm, but as Kaworu has also pointed out, Paul is a fool.

Love makes him gentle like nothing else does. He cannot help himself.

"Kaworu," he says, hollowly, "No, no -"

Paul heaves himself out of the tub, almost slipping in his unbalanced haste, and he backs toward the door with his hands in fists clutched to his chest as his eyes stay fixed to the wound that does not close itself over, the hideous corruption of the immaculate form, and he makes a torn, soft noise in the back of his throat.