Midoriya has always been agreeable about his friends' autonomy. A person's reputation is theirs to ruin. To do that properly, it must be ruined in full knowledge.
On their heads be it. Midoriya has historically had a difficult time remembering to call people anything deviating from the usual. Inevitably, as he slips up, he will correct himself, and he will hope to see Kaworu brighten again when he makes this effort. He notes how Kaworu's eyes glance down over him, and it's not the first time. It doesn't necessarily mean anything--until it does. His legs feel electric, as does his side where Paul's knee brushes him.
Even as his face returns to its original color, he can muster no answer to either of them. He blinks at Paul, caught out in a half-lie, a flash of a small confusion and vulnerability in his eyes. Midoriya does somewhat know of rules, even if it's just part of his deep-rooted consideration for others. Sometimes that lends him an air of wisdom, a surprising understanding. He watches others and feels it out. The boy who can overanalyze combat strategies and even the taste of good food can hardly explain this thing.
Though he doesn't advertise it, in moments that he feels someone needs help, or when he feels particularly singled out and challenged, the mild-mannered polite hero-in-training breaks rules with impunity.
He watches them rise, taking their warmth with them but leaving a little behind on the bed and on Midoriya. He's relieved. He's not relieved. He wants--an unfamiliar feeling, wanting--the warmth back. This is all very exhausting. He's tempted to lie down on the bed again if he has to wait. Instead, he retrieves certain small wrappers and looks for a place to dispose of them.
no subject
On their heads be it. Midoriya has historically had a difficult time remembering to call people anything deviating from the usual. Inevitably, as he slips up, he will correct himself, and he will hope to see Kaworu brighten again when he makes this effort. He notes how Kaworu's eyes glance down over him, and it's not the first time. It doesn't necessarily mean anything--until it does. His legs feel electric, as does his side where Paul's knee brushes him.
Even as his face returns to its original color, he can muster no answer to either of them. He blinks at Paul, caught out in a half-lie, a flash of a small confusion and vulnerability in his eyes. Midoriya does somewhat know of rules, even if it's just part of his deep-rooted consideration for others. Sometimes that lends him an air of wisdom, a surprising understanding. He watches others and feels it out. The boy who can overanalyze combat strategies and even the taste of good food can hardly explain this thing.
Though he doesn't advertise it, in moments that he feels someone needs help, or when he feels particularly singled out and challenged, the mild-mannered polite hero-in-training breaks rules with impunity.
He watches them rise, taking their warmth with them but leaving a little behind on the bed and on Midoriya. He's relieved. He's not relieved. He wants--an unfamiliar feeling, wanting--the warmth back. This is all very exhausting. He's tempted to lie down on the bed again if he has to wait. Instead, he retrieves certain small wrappers and looks for a place to dispose of them.