"I wasn't there for you," is his last weak insistence, but he won't burden Paul with his apologies any more. He will be here, now. He clutches his shoulders (his hands cramp) and conducts his own examination, a swift but specific search in the manner of his training. He already noted that Paul's eyes are returning to their normal state, but the color still glows bioluminescent blue in the dim entryway. He doesn't like the uncontrolled tripping of that laughter, the paleness of his skin, the broken sentences, the tears held back. He says nothing.

His release brings physical relief but also an emotional ache. Lately, for reasons that are obvious to both of them, he wants to keep the people he cares about close. He reluctantly lets him go.

"Yes, I'm better..." he murmurs with his new low quietness, wondering why Paul even has to ask. He shucks off his backpack and his jacket. Spring sun is warm now, but it will get cool later, he thinks. He puts his mask into one of its pockets, and removes his shoes. He has a plain, boring black shirt underneath, but this one is not borrowed and actually fits him.

"Tea. I brought you all something." He wouldn't come over empty-handed. He retrieves a pastry box from his backpack labeled Patisserie Lysitherie. Ever since that time Aoyama shoved cheese in his mouth, Midoriya has picked up the habit of surprising his friends with food when they're feeling down. He also produces a jar of ginger honey syrup--for the allergy sufferers.