He remembers the last time Paul said his name, just after the white-hot hope died in his eyes. He didn't know Paul kept looking. The urgency of not feeling safe on thresholds (anymore) wars with his hands coming up to clasp around Paul's back equally tight, as if that will make up for leaving him alone with his chorus of voices. Something in Midoriya that was torn apart knits back together like healing skin.

It's entirely different from the last time he held him. He can feel, past the zipper of his jacket mashed between them, the thudding of life and flow of breath. Paul moves even as he traps himself in the doorway of a house of death covered in vivacious spring growth. Paul is alive.

Still, Midoriya has to keep him that way. He won't allow sentiment to end with Paul disappearing in a gout of blue flame or simply turn to dust and then nothing. He firmly walks him indoors, even as he too is unwilling to let go. This results in an awkward shuffle even before the aches of his warmblood magnify with contact. He doesn't care. He pulls down his mask and draws in a clearer, shuddering breath over Paul's shoulder. This is not exactly how Midoriya supposes he should be making his very grave apology, but this is no less heartfelt.

"I'm so sorry, Paul-kun," he says, low and tremulous. The old Midoriya would have dissolved into tears already, but this new one is determined to get the words out. "I'm sorry I ran when you asked me to stay."