The first time Midoriya coaxed Paul into breathing with him he'd almost taken it as an affront, a knee-jerk response to the concept that he might have lost his control that badly. The fire and smoke of the great stone snake had triggered a reaction that he didn't know he could have, then, but Midoriya had seen his panic and known it for what it was.

This time, he sinks into Midoriya's hair without hesitation, syncing his breath to his like second nature. In the steadying circle of Midoriya's arms he all but slumps bonelessly against him, also careless of trace blood. He's skilled at lifting it out of fabric whether it's the rust red of the day or the silver gleam of moonlight.

Midoriya will be able to feel the contained shudder of suppressed inappropriate laughter under his circling palm, Paul sniffing thickly as he catches himself before it spills over.

"I am sparkling," he points out, which as absurdities go is actually something of an improvement, especially because it's slipped back into his birth tongue, "I don't know if I want to sparkle more truly. You'll make me sleep in the tub."

He wraps his arms around Midoriya's waist, fingers splaying on the small of his back, and he keeps breathing. There's the smell of mild conditioner and sweat, the faint residue of winter air, the warm complexity under it all that's only Midoriya.

"When I talk to them," not if, "How do I know what to say if I can't even say it to you? When do you know that you've found the right words? What's that supposed to feel like?"