deercountry | o5 . bone house mingle!

He has two friends--both out of commission at the time of the Leviathan battle--who help out at Lysithea's shop. Weeping Wafers have been a staple in the variety box Midoriya purchases for friends going through the roughest of patches.

He smiles for the first time, reflecting back a wan, understated version of Paul's, but however small it is, it does not waver. He follows quietly with less spring in his step, socks padding a little softer than they usually do. He nods to the humanoid shape clinking past out of habit, taking his cue from Paul, then remembers with a jolt that this is one of those real skeletons he saw on the ship and outside the house--up close. There is something so terribly authentic about the very human imperfections in proportion, the bump of healed bone here or there--quite different from the fake plastic things they put in science classrooms.

He doesn't ask how he's been, like rubbing salt in the wound. He can see for himself. Midoriya will let his friend have this, the usual motions of puttering in a kitchen and getting someone something to drink in an attempt to find an equilibrium.

Paul has never puttered much before in his life. He still doesn't have the knack for it. He's too fluidly efficient, going through the motions of making tea and setting Weeping Wafers on plates like he's field-stripping armor instead.

"They're not so bad when you're used to them," he says, in the midst of it, after the water is set up to heat through and Midoriya has been offered one of the high stools drawn up against the counters ringing the kitchen, "The skeletons. It's interesting, actually - you can learn a lot about variations in anatomy in terms of range of motion with a moving model."

"That one you saw is Harrowhark's. Her people pledge their bones to their House, when they die. It's their way of honoring their dead," he adds, as if it's a casual afterthought, folding himself up on a stool with his leg drawn up to cross over his knee, improbably and perfectly balanced despite the backlessness of the chair. "She brought them from home with her. I think that must be comforting, don't you?"

"Yes." He can see that, for someone who grew up with the tradition at least, it must be. "I saw some on the ship, but we were busy..."

Harrowhark (a housemate?) has her bones, the comfort of her people. Poor Paul doesn't even have the comfort of pretending to bustle or fumble with domesticity, the efficiency of movement too ingrained in him. He talks about skeletons instead. Oh well, Midoriya thinks as he watches the plates laid out with swift precision. Midoriya settles on his stool, legs down, socks gently resting on rungs. He looks at his friend, a long black bird with iridescent eyes perched with one leg in. A person risen from the dead.

"I never got to thank you. I was too busy running away." He has to thank him, a gesture Midoriya doesn't expect of others towards himself, but one that tugs compulsorily until it's done. "If it wasn't for you, the city would have been overrun, and I'd have been killed."

It's the sort of brutal fact he's used to facing in the aftermath of a fight, but he tempers it by lightly resting a hand on his shoulder. Sometimes Midoriya finds himself filling in for something that isn't there. He feels the absence of Paul's usual touches, that trust he shows. His fingers ache with it, but that is familiar too, from the times he had to let his bones heal and strengthen the sinews around them again.

"You were busy." Paul doesn't fidget. Whatever he's doing with his fingernails along the seam of his pants at the knee is, therefore, something else. Midoriya's thanks have Paul's attention slanting down to a crack in the flooring, one not yet refilled with mending bone.

"I should thank you again," he says, quietly, "For everything. You had to - I think it's harder, being the one left."

It's an admission he already half-regrets. He thinks about what Midoriya knows about him, about what Midoriya knows about people, about the scattering of slips that Paul has made around him. It's not that difficult to put together when a person is speaking from a certain kind of experience.

But then again - maybe there's a sort of comfort in that. Paul knows what it's like to be the one gone as well as the one left. He didn't suffer while he was dead. He was spared the aftermath, the cleaning up, the first shock of grief. He made his way back into the world when it had open arms for him to fall into. He got off lightly. He always seems to.

"I'm sorry you saw me like that." Paul says, to the cracked floor and the sunbeam on it.

Midoriya's mouth goes dry, but he forgets to sip his tea. He just cups it in his hands to ease the stiff aches. It twists his heart to think of how it might be if his and Paul's positions were reversed the day the Leviathan landed. It's not the first time for either of them.

"My old boss died from his wounds in a raid," he offers lowly in sympathy. Unconsciously, Midoriya's hand hovers down over his stomach where this Hero was impaled. He can still smell the flowers at the funeral, and the Beastblood when Paul--

"I'm sorry. I meant to cheer you up by coming over. I just... Smiling and pretending everything's all right won't work. I should be more honest with you."

Now it's Midoriya's turn to look down. He's lied by omission before. He's lied simply, gently, to the people closest to him. He's lied to himself. He's going to do it all over again to a hurting friend. He's not great at telling lies, but he came here clothed in softness carrying several.

"I also came here to ask you a favor. Two. But it can wait a little. If you'd rather talk about something else first, that's all right."

Midoriya moves his hand over the memory of someone else's wound, and Paul realizes that he's already decided to tell him. Not yet, not here, but he will, because he wants to.

"You are making me feel better." Paul looks at Midoriya's downcast eyes, the bruised shadows underneath them. "I didn't think you were pretending everything was all right. It's not. We know that. Sometimes -" Paul glances up, and inspiration strikes from the heavens, or at least Gideon's room "- things just fucking suck."

"But we're still here, having tea." Paul lifts his cup in his friend's direction, half-smiling all the way up to his own heavy eyes. "That's something. I'm all right to ask for favors. I promise. What do you need?"

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."

There were a range of favors Paul half-expected Midoriya to ask for, and this one falls well outside of it. He isn't quite surprised enough to blink, but the wide stillness of his eyes is nearly as bad. At least it's reassurance that he hasn't been looking, he thinks, somewhat absurdly, and then the rest of what Midoriya has said truly sinks in.

This favor is as much for him as it is for Midoriya, or more so - or perhaps he should better think of it as for both of them, because what else is friendship supposed to be?

The story tells Paul all he needs to understand. Midoriya doesn't want him to break himself apart on some terrible future. He doesn't want their friendship poisoned by Paul trying to keep him safe, rather than letting him do what he's called to do - his life of protecting others that puts him at so much risk. Paul is still and poised as comprehension washes over the memories of Midoriya's urgency, of his desperation in the woods.

"That's not how it works with me," Paul says, and it's like admitting to failure already, reluctant and unhappy, "I don't choose what I see. But -" because he can't leave it at that, he can't say no to this favor, not one like this "- I don't have to tell you. I don't have to do anything. It's better if I don't, isn't it? After the last time."

The last time, Paul clutched him tight with a knot in his chest. The last time, Midoriya offered him his hand in a promise.

The favor is mostly for Paul. The only selfishness Midoriya allows himself is the desire not to lose a friend or see sadness shroud his face--hypothetical or presently existing. He once spoke to a little girl with the same downcast expression and misgivings about her own power. Midoriya realizes with a horrible not-entirely-internal jolt that only a grain of Paul's regret can be seen in his carefully controlled stillness. It takes everything in him to swallow against the tightness in his throat and not smother his friend in a tearful hug.

Paul mustn't think of his power as a curse, or worse, as an inevitability that carves future events in stone. Midoriya knows, far too well, that a--complicated--power can still be a blessing.

"It wouldn't be better. Whether or not you told me... Whether or not we even met, whether or not you came to Trench, I would still have been there fighting, until I couldn't anymore."

An assurance of his continued perseverance should be spoken with the gusto of the battle-ready. Here, it is instead a quiet truth that very gently brushes aside prophecy and visions like the veil of a weeping willow. His voice only barely trembles, because he wants to give Paul something stronger to hold onto.

"I don't want you to feel bad about your power. You saved me with it. Twice, I think. If you can't control it..." he extends his hand, opens it and the scars there, "then you shouldn't carry the knowledge alone."

"I haven't seen you since, anyway." Paul shrugs, an unbalanced rise and drop as he unfolds his bent leg and lets both feet touch the floor. "For all I know, I won't see you out that far again."

"But if I do, I will." He lifts his eyes to meet Midoriya's, half-smiling, as his hands find the edge of his stool to hold onto. "I don't feel bad about it. I just wish it was more reliable."

Paul isn't sure he's ever lied that directly to Midoriya before. There was the failed prank at the ball, there have been certain omissions, but an outright lie the way he defines one - not like this, without a trace or a tell. It's modulated just so to convey faint embarrassment, the suggestion that his issue is that his ability isn't much compared to most people's, in terms of control or potency.

He doesn't want this to be about him. He doesn't want Midoriya to worry, something he already knows is impossibly out of reach. He doesn't want to talk about his power, or how he feels about it, or what he sees. That's what being in this kitchen is about.

"That was one favor," Paul prompts, softly, "What's the second?"

Midoriya thinks of the way Paul treats him and others--not when he's just being nice, but when he's scared and sad. He saw that slip--two--with the Unsnakely. Midoriya saw him in the forest blaming himself. He saw his eyes, just today, in the doorway of this house. Midoriya believes there's no way Paul isn't feeling defeated or apprehensive of another vision.

Midoriya's fingers curl on the countertop. All his edges subtly tremble. He is unable to play along with Paul's lie, nor hide that fact. He can't give Paul that comfort as easily as letting him make tea or hugging him. He's not that skilled. He can't even tell if it's a lie in whole or in part. He knows Paul can see him sitting here trapped in lie-truths.

He remembers that time Paul didn't let him get away with lying about being fine. Midoriya always repays that sort of kindness, even if he's floundering out of his depth.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. Just know that you can," he says, giving Paul the soft, low finality in his voice as an out.

Of course Paul doesn't get away with it. If that was the kind of person Midoriya was, they wouldn't be friends in the first place. Paul smiles crookedly, a caught out, half-repentant twist under shaded eyes.

"I know," Paul affirms, as easy as that. "I will. I am. Sometimes I feel like all I do is talk about it. Just not today."

He sips deeply from his tea, which has cooled enough to be tolerable. He remembers the first time they had tea, cradled in the curved arc of an altered memory. Midoriya had kept the door closed, then; Paul hopes he'll let it stay closed again.

"Please," he adds, more quietly, and whether that please is attached to the words that came before it, or the ones that follow after, is unclear, "What's the second favor?"

The past can't be erased, but the future can be better--yes, even for those who can see it. Midoriya will do his best to protect Paul's. He gathers the pieces of himself that had shaken loose.

"The second..." he repeats, to ground himself. This one was meant, today, to be delivered as casually as Paul's lie wanted to be. Midoriya can see this won't be the case now. He's without certain pieces of his armor. He dearly hopes Paul won't connect the first favor with what lies beneath the second. He cradles his tea but doesn't drink.

"I've been thinking I want to be more careful about my work. I don't have the support I do back in my world. I have to protect my friends from anyone who might come after them. So, if you can, please don't tell people about our friendship. Those who already know are fine, and those you trust. Just be careful who else you talk to."

He can't see the future, but he can guess. He can gently hold the severed strings of connection he would have had through Paul and everyone else he is asking this favor of. People he will never meet, except maybe as simply a Hero one knows of. And in return, Midoriya will have to speak only casually about those he cares deeply for. This may not even be a permanent measure, but for someone who grew up with no friends and who treasures the ones he has now, it's a kind of torture.

Midoriya was as likely to get away with deceiving Paul about the nature of this favor as Paul was about convincing Midoriya he was all right with his noxious blue eyes and overly efficient hospitality. Paul straightens up on his stool, the a certain quality of anticipatory tension flowing into his spine and radiating outward.

But he doesn't say anything right away. He looks at Midoriya, whose shattered self is only now coalescing after the last time his friends (Paul among them) were in danger, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Midoriya, who arrived on their doorstep in disguise, who shepherded Paul out of sight as soon as he was able and asked Paul not to look to his future for catastrophe.

He's seen what his friend can do, the immense crackling power that seems barely contained in his body. If there's someone in Trench Midoriya doesn't think he can protect the people he cares about from, someone so dangerous that he doesn't even want Paul to know what the threat is, skimming at its edges in hypotheticals -

It might even be nothing. A measure of security Midoriya hadn't thought of before what happened, and the terrible memories of death and ruin it brought up for him. Paul assumes the worst as a matter of practical caution, but that doesn't mean it's true.

"I don't make a habit of associating people with me unless they do it first. A similar principle. But I'll be more careful with you going forward." Paul flashes a quick, hard-edged smile, one fighter to another down in the gladiatorial pits out of sight of the crowd. "I'll tell the rest of the house the same. If anyone asks after you, what would you like me to say?"

He wants to know. It doesn't mean that he has to, not yet.

Next to him, he can feel Paul coiling the muscles in his back in the space between words and nearly regrets ever speaking of this. Midoriya strives, as ever, to put his friends at ease, but he also recognizes the ready posture of someone twined with him in the bloody chaos of battle. They are the relentlessness of an iron hammer and the efficiency of a black-sheathed knife. He remembers Paul affixing wing pins to his collar as he spoke about a test where failure meant death. He doesn't ask why Paul isn't so free with the knowledge of his associations. He doesn't need to.

He presses his lips together in a not-quite-smile when he looks at him again. "Not sure. It's been generations since vigilantes were legalized as Heroes, and records are spotty. It was a chaotic time. I don't really know how they did things." He swallows, thinking of the past wielders of One For All all dying young, with the exception of his mentor, and how even that information was hard to come by. Sipping some tea helps the dryness in his mouth.

"Things you think people would already know, I guess. There's photos of me in costume at camp..." Camp Leviathan, worst field trip ever. "Consistency is important for a public image. I guess that's true for protecting a private one. And it's easier to use just a little truth than making up huge lies."

Whatever his misgivings about lying to a close friend, Midoriya mutters this easily, almost to himself. He learned this from his mentor, who was always in the public eye. All Might kept the secret of One For All so that its origin--and method of transfer--wouldn't throw a powder keg into society.

"If you need to recommend a Hero to someone who needs help, you can. I won't let this get in the way of that."

Midoriya outlines his plan and the reasoning behind it, and some of the gathered tension subsides in Paul once more. He expected no less than careful thoughtfulness, but he wasn't sure how much experience Midoriya has had with keeping secrets.

(And why does his relief that the answer seems to be 'a meaningful amount' come tinged with with regret? Maybe it's because lying doesn't seem to rest easy on his friend's shoulders, even with the excuse of necessity - but then, why does Paul see that as anything but a weakness Midoriya hasn't overcome? He'll think about it later.)

"I know you wouldn't let anything get in the way of that," he says, because he knows how important Midoriya's chosen path is to him, and it hardly ever hurts anything to validate someone's passion. It also hardly ever hurts to let someone know what you admire about them, your tone shaded with respect that's only faintly wistful. It's admirable; it's the greatest threat to Midoriya's safety, and these are the competing facts that Paul must reconcile for himself.

"Consider the favor granted. Your secrets are my own." Paul touches his lips with two fingers, then drops his hand to curl over his heart before it returns to cradling his cup.

"...and if there's anything else you think I might be able to help you with in this situation, or any other," Paul says, quietly, to his tea, "I hope you know I wouldn't let anything get in the way of that."

There's a very potent vulnerability in being honest and holding out one's shivering heart to another. He watches Paul's gesture (sign?) and commits it to memory.

He knows the difference between being told they will fight together, as when joining or being born into something, and choosing it for themselves. It's part of what scares him, so soon after the battle, that people Midoriya cares about agree to fight by his side so readily. Paul might relate. A small but more genuine smile trembles into existence.

"Thank you, Paul-kun. I know. I've known for a while," he says more softly than one should when talking shop.

He knew it when they clasped hands by the firelight after Paul's vision. He felt it when Paul rushed to him as they defeated that Unsnakely. He traces this inkling back to when he told Paul, the first time, that he was kind, and Paul looked like Midoriya had struck him.

It's this that Midoriya admires most in Paul, a stubborn firelight in a dark storm. He looks at his friend who stares at his tea. He can feel the soft press, so similar to his own, of Paul wanting to help more. There are things Midoriya will not tell even his closest friends. There are things he has told no one.

"I'm hoping these precautions won't really end up being needed."

Paul should be glad that Midoriya doesn't question him. He is, for the most part. There's further relief in being understood, in having his commitment recognized.

But it's like his friend says. He hopes these precautions won't be necessary, but as he glances up from the unintelligible swirl of tea leaves at the bottom of his half-empty cup he cannot help but feel they will be. He smiles back, crooked and mild, with too much knowing held between them.

If it's not whatever Midoriya fears now, it will be something else. The world outside this house churns on, a blood-soaked engine winding down towards devastation and taking them all with it regardless of what they might want, or the promises they make to each other.

"So do I," he says, with the palest trace of wryness, "But that's what precautions are for. Thank you for trusting me to be one of them. May you never have to ask."

(He wonders if this is what Gurney and Duncan and Thufir felt like, sometimes. He wonders how much he ever understood of the way his teachers would talk to each other, or the vows they made to him, or how fragile they understood them to be in ways that he did not.)

o5 . bone house mingle!

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cw: mention of impalement, mha spoilers (anime-friendly)

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