Midoriya's arm lies between Kaworu's belly and the small of Paul's back, already preoccupying even before Midoriya sets his cheek on his shoulder, the two of their weights combined enough to press his hipbones against the counter and stutter the rhythm of his breathing. He twists the tap closed with slightly more force than necessary, misjudging it in his distraction. It's not a bad thing. If anything, it's some kind of relief, a wringing out like a sponge - which is what he should be doing, he reminds himself.

The dishes are obscured under a layer of foamed soap, and Paul thinks absently of the important lesson of 'letting things soak', which would provide an excuse to disentangle them. He won't, of course. If he steps away, he already suspects Midoriya will try to do it himself, and he's already put in than his fair share of effort this morning. Paul takes a bracing breath before he starts scrubbing, hair falling around his face as he bends over the steaming sink.

When Kaworu breaks the brief reverie, the sudsy water sloshes around Paul's wrists when he half-startles, laughter coming out of him like the curl of a question mark.

"Kaworu," he says, twisting to glance back at as much of them as he can see, which isn't much, and then he's quiet in a way that echoes the softly inexorable determination of Midoriya at the table earlier. He flicks from green to pale hair, eyes shaded by his lashes.

"...he is good at it." Softly, like an extended hand, palm up. "If you want to."

They did brush their teeth.