Paul says nothing to that. He only smiles, slight and tilted, a gentle curve of anticipation under a heat-darkened gaze. He shifts against Kaworu just for the pleasant brush of friction between them, his thin t-shirt sliding reluctantly across his skin.

One secret of the boy who strives towards the impossible perfect is that, sometimes, he likes it better when things aren't.

The first kiss goes to the sharp pointed corner of Kaworu's teasing mouth, the second softly placed on its center. There's a split on his own lips he doesn't remember getting, a fine line of raw skin that stings when stretched, and there's none of the radiant bloom of spice to usher him on. They do need to brush their teeth. He's making a mess of both of them, and his head hurts, and he's happy.