"Is that what I feel like?" he asks wonderingly, not really expecting an answer, and not sure if he means his fingers or the entirety of his emotional consciousness floating in a deepening ocean of pulsing lights.
He has trouble with the hairpins at first. Everything is magnified and intense: sight, touch, even the sound of breathing he matches so as not to disturb the waves. He's relearning how to move--but he's done that before with his Quirk, modulating the lightning inside the bottle. Paul's hair doesn't change much with part of it swept back, other than revealing the top of his ear. Midoriya lightly presses his fingertips (a thousand tiny filaments felt at once) and guides Paul's head to turn so he can start on the other side. That one is a trained movement, from practicing dressing head wounds.
"You're calm, and everywhere," he murmurs vaguely in return. The spice is deepening. Midoriya has to hold onto something. "You're so kind."
Paul tried to save him, after all. Only the faintest shadow passes over Midoriya at the memory of refusing his plea in the forest. ("Come back with me.") Midoriya blooms with gratitude that chases it away tenfold, a warm radiance that doesn't sear. ("Keep me safe.") An iron will crashes down, starting in his chest and unfolding armor around them both. Midoriya has no experience modulating his emotions for the sake of empaths or people on spice. He sits comfortably in this dichotomy of relentless might and the unbridled compassion that fuels it, as he leans over and considers the angle of the next hairpin before gently, gently placing it.
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He has trouble with the hairpins at first. Everything is magnified and intense: sight, touch, even the sound of breathing he matches so as not to disturb the waves. He's relearning how to move--but he's done that before with his Quirk, modulating the lightning inside the bottle. Paul's hair doesn't change much with part of it swept back, other than revealing the top of his ear. Midoriya lightly presses his fingertips (a thousand tiny filaments felt at once) and guides Paul's head to turn so he can start on the other side. That one is a trained movement, from practicing dressing head wounds.
"You're calm, and everywhere," he murmurs vaguely in return. The spice is deepening. Midoriya has to hold onto something. "You're so kind."
Paul tried to save him, after all. Only the faintest shadow passes over Midoriya at the memory of refusing his plea in the forest. ("Come back with me.") Midoriya blooms with gratitude that chases it away tenfold, a warm radiance that doesn't sear. ("Keep me safe.") An iron will crashes down, starting in his chest and unfolding armor around them both. Midoriya has no experience modulating his emotions for the sake of empaths or people on spice. He sits comfortably in this dichotomy of relentless might and the unbridled compassion that fuels it, as he leans over and considers the angle of the next hairpin before gently, gently placing it.