The first time they faced this Beast, Paul lost himself in a conflagration of grief and rage. The last time Paul fought a true battle on this sand, he'd held the hungry tooth of what had devoured him and set himself alight once more. This time, he breathes smoke and stains Midoriya's fingertips with a residue of ash.

Paul doesn't know what color his eyes are.

"As soon as we get away from here, I stop."

He doesn't know where he finds the words, or how he wills them to stilled steadiness. He knows where they don't come from. Not panic. Not the false assurance of his most desperately hollowed out selves. Not the relentless engine of his will alone, by which the universe might be so cruelly shaped.

He doesn't care what color his eyes are. He can see through them clearly, and that's good enough. The expression on Paul's face when his attention flicks from the smear of Darkblood on Midoriya's fingers to his wide green eyes is still only Paul.

"Trust me?" He asks, shaky and human, as a dead man trails in their wake and the world keeps breaking around them.