Midoriya isn't in the habit of mentioning people not present by name--a subconscious regard for privacy--but someday he will have to tell Paul more about Kirishima, the gregarious yakiniku guy. For a moment, it seemed as though Paul was channeling his spirit.

He smiles and thumbs away his tears. Midoriya isn't prone to hiding and turning his emotions in on himself to save his dignity. His outpourings give him the superficial appearance of being weak. Anyone who knows him experiences the opposite. He has been uncommonly resilient since he learned, at the age of four, the world isn't fair, especially to people born like him. This makes him want, all the harder, to clutch his friends' hands when they shake, wrap them in kindness when a forlorn cloud strikes, and shield them from their fears.

He shifts, passing Paul a quick but grateful hug. (If he presses the tears he missed into his shirt, what of it?) He puts his hands out slightly when he stands, not for balance, but because the air is fascinating cotton. He admires colorful motes dancing on Paul's dark hair, and he makes his peace with the spice.

"Not actually looking to pass out again. Water's fine." He thinks, too, he'll go for a starchy snack rather than eldritch Tang.