Paul has told him he looks good before, an affirmation one friend should give to another. This is different. The longer one pair of green eyes stares at another, the more Midoriya is convinced Paul is not simply very fascinated by eyeliner. Midoriya can't turn away from a sincere, bare look from someone he cares about. Paul, who wields words as skillfully as swords, now drops them like stones.

Attracted to the warmth of the spot, and because Midoriya knows it's close, his fingers curl and find Paul's pulse. It's something to hold onto while his own can't decide what it wants to do.

Paul's drawing failed to capture rosy flushes like the one creeping across his nose and freckles under the scintillating touch of pale fingers. Midoriya looks at Kaworu, but his eyes--the color of luck, passion, and human blood--travel down. This affords Midoriya a similar steady view, unbroken by being known, of lashes and dark strokes lining pale, sharp angles.

It's a relief when Kaworu sits back, now a little less close than inexorably so. It's also a relief to shyly smile away people staring at him. He'd have squirmed under such scrutiny, except he realizes he'd be a hypocrite, so he lets the camaraderie of being embarrassing condense around them in a spice cloud.

"Nagisa-kun's hard work--I wouldn't know, I can't see... Oh, wait--" It hadn't occurred to him at first, having spent so many years with no reason to use it, no friends to send things to. He fumbles for his Omni and its front camera. It's a poor, flattened facsimile of what his eyes can see, but he grins down at himself anyway. (Still, he likes looking at the other two better, and it reminds him of what people usually do with front cameras.)

"Here. Get in." He sticks out his arm and scrunches into the back of the couch and his friends, trying to fit them all into frame. He's poor at this.