He flushes and wonders if Paul can feel the heat radiating off his cheek through his shirt. Kaworu really had to ask that when they were all pressed together, didn't he... But Midoriya resolved not to shrink away from these two people he cares about. Midoriya decided this when he looked Paul in the eye. He doesn't avoid Kaworu's now.
He lets out a small breath. A few of Kaworu's hairs move with it because they're close. He tilts his head up to look at the slant of Paul's face, also close, and the tangle of curls around it. His familiar sweat-smell is reassuring. Paul seems less mercurial than when he threw that pillow, and it's the sort of clarity Midoriya was looking for in the ambiguity of his flirting. (Midoriya can call it that now.)
"Yes. With you two. Not in here," he breathes before thinking. Midoriya is very aware they are in a public part of the house. They're alone, and there isn't an entire class of his old neighborhood's kids to laugh at him at a vulnerable moment, but some old irrational discomfort nags at him at a very inconvenient time.
He presses his fingers slightly against Kaworu, gives Paul an extra bodily nudge against the counter because he's somehow taking forever to wash a few plates, and leaves. It's relief and torture to drag himself away. It isn't the first time he's jumped into something before thinking, but all his nerves crackle anyway as he pads down the hall. He waits at the foot of the stairs, reconnecting with their original plan to return to the bedroom, and it comes to him all at once. He nearly cracks with laughter held back. When the other two appear, he turns with a wry grin,
"...I remember now. I carried you both."
For a variety of reasons--shyness from being set apart in childhood, the way he carefully and respectfully handles people, and new situations like this--Midoriya doesn't usually initiate contact. There are exceptions for when his dear friends are drunk, or when he is called upon to keep one awake while the other does dishes.
no subject
He lets out a small breath. A few of Kaworu's hairs move with it because they're close. He tilts his head up to look at the slant of Paul's face, also close, and the tangle of curls around it. His familiar sweat-smell is reassuring. Paul seems less mercurial than when he threw that pillow, and it's the sort of clarity Midoriya was looking for in the ambiguity of his flirting. (Midoriya can call it that now.)
"Yes. With you two. Not in here," he breathes before thinking. Midoriya is very aware they are in a public part of the house. They're alone, and there isn't an entire class of his old neighborhood's kids to laugh at him at a vulnerable moment, but some old irrational discomfort nags at him at a very inconvenient time.
He presses his fingers slightly against Kaworu, gives Paul an extra bodily nudge against the counter because he's somehow taking forever to wash a few plates, and leaves. It's relief and torture to drag himself away. It isn't the first time he's jumped into something before thinking, but all his nerves crackle anyway as he pads down the hall. He waits at the foot of the stairs, reconnecting with their original plan to return to the bedroom, and it comes to him all at once. He nearly cracks with laughter held back. When the other two appear, he turns with a wry grin,
"...I remember now. I carried you both."
For a variety of reasons--shyness from being set apart in childhood, the way he carefully and respectfully handles people, and new situations like this--Midoriya doesn't usually initiate contact. There are exceptions for when his dear friends are drunk, or when he is called upon to keep one awake while the other does dishes.