Paul laughs lightly at Kaworu's correction, inclining his head in concession. Midoriya looks excellent. They all do, and it softens the amber-warm stretch of the moments between them, contextualizes the press of Midoriya's fingers against his skin and the weight of Kaworu sinking into his lap.

Ebb and flow. They're all playing with a kind of power none of them are sure what to do with yet, and there's no one he can think of he trusts more to do that with. It's like sparring in a different arena. It's like leaping off a roof and knowing he'll be caught mid-air, but by kind hands instead of humming power.

So when Midoriya hits on the idea of memorializing their matching looks, he doesn't think twice about shifting closer. He keeps his arm locked around Kaworu's waist, the other boy not so difficult to move as long as he keeps the support of the couch, and readily settles against Midoriya's outstretched arm. He flings his own around Midoriya's well-muscled shoulders and tucks Kaworu's head under his chin as he smiles winsomely at the camera.