eternalised, objectified | january catch-all

[terriblepurpose]

Who: Paul Atreides, Ortus Nigenad, Mercymorn the First and you
What: January catch-all
When: January
Where: Various
Content warnings: Body transformation, memory alteration

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[wannasmash]

Midoriya could never be satisfied with himself as he was, but he never thought too poorly of himself for too long. He wasn't in the habit of thinking of himself. His only thoughts were of how to improve. Bakugou knew better than anyone how Midoriya never took himself into account. The more that stupid Deku could do, the more his rival worried--not that Midoriya knew about that.

Midoriya gives a little mm-hm of assent. He didn't know Paul well, but the things he did know were the things that mattered most to him. He knew Paul was kind and wanted to do good. He knew they wanted to keep each other safe.

"It's what friends do. But I really did think that helping you would mean you'd be less scared of your vision than you already were. And I thought that even if you were tested, and you failed, I'd protect you."

Something leaves him with that last word. True to form, Midoriya hurts himself the most. He looks down at his tea and doesn't see it. The small sounds of the city, the apartment, and his own breathing become muffled. He forces himself to observe the color of his tea and the texture of the pastry Paul brought. He thinks that maybe he made a mistake with the forks and that it's probably meant to be eaten by hand. This seems like a catastrophic oversight.

"I..."

His eyes still can't work properly, and something has gone out of them. He picks up his tea and his hands don't shake. It's never his hands that shake. He sips it and doesn't taste it. It's also not hot enough. Tea should be piping hot, but not hot enough to burn the brew.

"I shouldn't keep you. You've got a lot of things to do." He has no idea what, as all his thoughts have turned to the herculean effort of gently curving the corners of his mouth up, but it's Paul. Paul always finds a lot of things to do.

[unchoose]

Nothing more important than this. There's a future where he says it. He doesn't need his prescience for that.

The unspoken words aren't true. There are a thousand, ten thousand more important things to do than to sit here with cooling tea, barely touched pastries, and a young man over a decade removed from Paul's life. Midoriya's feelings, like all feelings, are temporary, variable things. The world does not turn on their fulcrum, and he should hope that never alters.

This isn't the last time Paul is going to hurt Midoriya's heart.

"You did protect me," he says, softly, and it's worse because it's true. It's worse because he leans forward, reaches out, and touches the back of Midoriya's hand with two fingers, fleeting and light and as much comfort as he trusts himself to give. "The parts of me I wasn't protecting."

"And you did help me be less afraid." He sits back, closing his hand around the memory of warmth. "I don't think I always knew how to tell you that. What it meant to me. You helped me...remember things about myself."

"I didn't have anyone like you, back home." His smile is well-formed, even. It looks like a wince. "I think a few things might have been different, if I did. So don't sit there and think that you didn't help me, for my sake, all right?"

[wannasmash]

A few things. Midoriya remembers how Paul clutched him when they reunited properly without the trees and the ravages of Corruption separating them. Paul once looked at him with eyes bare and vulnerable, a green that perishes in the absence of mercy under an unforgiving sun.

Sometimes touching an old hurt feels like a glancing burn from the stove. This Paul's fingers are different; the whole of him is different. But this is temporary. Muad'dib is a guest. Paul will be back soon enough.

"All right," he whispers to the two spots on the back of his hand.

[unchoose]

A final dismissal, or what he'll choose to see as one. It's better to think of it that way.

He gathers himself together in the deep quiet he is capable of forming around himself, rising to his feet without a rustle of clothing or creak of the floor underneath him. His shadow dips across the table as he bows a polite farewell, his fist pressed into his open palm in front of his chest.

"I hope you can enjoy the pastry, Izuku-kun. It keeps well." Footsteps, finally, making the journey to the door. The faint sounds of boots being returned to feet, an activity that is much the same for every human being. "I'll see you again soon. Be well until then."

The door opens. It closes. The echo of its click hangs in the echo of those last words, almost as much command as concern.