They're someone else's words, Midoriya can tell, and that someone has it right. The motion of copying Paul with his cup in solidarity then taking a sip gives him focus. Paul says... what Midoriya thought he might say. He can't look at him again, so he stares at his own hands sheltering his tea.

"My old boss had a vision of his friend dying. Tried to prevent it, change things over the years. He tried to get him to retire even. It broke their friendship."

It seems as though Midoriya isn't asking his favor, but--patience, he rambles, a habit--it's relevant. It not being his story to tell was an excuse before, on the beach by the campfire and their clasped hands. Now he says the things he was afraid to say for fear of them coming true. They spill out in a quiet hemorrhage.

"Just before he died, he discovered that the future can be changed with the converged will of many. But before that, he was so sad about his vision, for years. He'd never been able to alter an outcome."

He finally looks at his friend in his blacks and the occasional sunbeams flecked on him. "It's not quite the same, but either way... Beyond a minute or so, like in a fight, please... Don't ever look into my future."