He draws his legs onto the bed and shifts closer. They're pressed together again, his side and leg against Kaworu's, one of Paul's legs between his, and half his weight on Paul, whose laughter reverberates against the other two. Midoriya settles easily against Paul's known black-clad form, lines strong enough for acrobatics, blade-smooth, and gentle. He's less familiar with Kaworu's pleasantly strange, wispy allure.
Midoriya's eyes flick from Kaworu to Paul, and he realizes that he has no idea what he is doing or what it might be called, and he doesn't care. He's never been able to adequately explain any atypical relationship in his life. He only feels what is right and cherishes it. His chest aches with a warm permeating joy. His fingers smooth Paul's curls away from his newly studded ears in reply, and it takes him a moment to remember why the movement is easy.
He resists an urge to redundantly ask if this is all right. Kaworu has made himself clear, and so has Paul. Kaworu seems confident. Midoriya can't be sure, but he thinks perhaps it's his way of making his own life on his terms. Midoriya always thought that if by some slim chance he got to experience something like this, it would be because someone roped him into it. This is still true, but he's changed so much in the last few years. He doesn't want to just acquiesce. He wants to observe and act. He's always been one to give to people. ("You're a giving place. Things grow for you.")
He looks again at the angel who was given nothing, or not enough. He remembers Kaworu plaintively asking in a spice haze questions that circled around his own worth.
"Here," Midoriya says in soft offering as he moves forward--awkwardly negotiating their noses while pinprick-red eyes blur up close--and presses his lips to his. He knows how the face is built, but this pliant touch is still unexpectedly soft. He closes his eyes. He doesn't know how to kiss. He doesn't know how to move in a way that entices a heady rhythm. He does know how to hold someone, and his arm secures the perfect curve around Kaworu to draw him closer into his and Paul's beating hearts.
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Midoriya's eyes flick from Kaworu to Paul, and he realizes that he has no idea what he is doing or what it might be called, and he doesn't care. He's never been able to adequately explain any atypical relationship in his life. He only feels what is right and cherishes it. His chest aches with a warm permeating joy. His fingers smooth Paul's curls away from his newly studded ears in reply, and it takes him a moment to remember why the movement is easy.
He resists an urge to redundantly ask if this is all right. Kaworu has made himself clear, and so has Paul. Kaworu seems confident. Midoriya can't be sure, but he thinks perhaps it's his way of making his own life on his terms. Midoriya always thought that if by some slim chance he got to experience something like this, it would be because someone roped him into it. This is still true, but he's changed so much in the last few years. He doesn't want to just acquiesce. He wants to observe and act. He's always been one to give to people. ("You're a giving place. Things grow for you.")
He looks again at the angel who was given nothing, or not enough. He remembers Kaworu plaintively asking in a spice haze questions that circled around his own worth.
"Here," Midoriya says in soft offering as he moves forward--awkwardly negotiating their noses while pinprick-red eyes blur up close--and presses his lips to his. He knows how the face is built, but this pliant touch is still unexpectedly soft. He closes his eyes. He doesn't know how to kiss. He doesn't know how to move in a way that entices a heady rhythm. He does know how to hold someone, and his arm secures the perfect curve around Kaworu to draw him closer into his and Paul's beating hearts.