Midoriya keeps his composure. For a while, it looks like Paul might too, his face fixed in a mask of raised eyebrows and tightly pursed lips as a muscle in his temple twitches. In the ongoing struggle of them just saying things, he can cope with sexual intercourse out of Kaworu, barely. He can even swallow eggplant stuff with a swift bob of his head.

It's hand washing and the attendant unintentional implications that undo him. Paul doubles over, looking very much like he might actually be sick, his back heaving in silent spasms, before he pops back up and drags Kaworu into an embrace, his slicked hands jutting awkwardly from his wrists as he presses a firm kiss to his angel's brow. He grins at Midoriya sidelong, his laughter finally softly audible.

"You're both terrible," he declares, his tension dissolving, "I just woke up. Yes - we'll clean up and come downstairs, if you promise that the omelette doesn't come with an explanation of eggs and where babies come from," he sticks the tip of his tongue in the corner of his mouth, a wicked urge overtaking him, "Izuku-kun."

He flutters his eyelashes, exaggerated to the point of absurdity.