Midoriya is very used to being in a position where he has a lot to learn. Immediately he can feel he has no idea what he is doing. He is someone taking one step at a time in deep darkness lit only by a small dim lantern. He... forgot to breathe. It escapes him now, the exhale through his nose trapped in this closeness between them. His nerves prickle, ache, and spark along the line of mingled bodies, legs tangled and interlocked. Midoriya knows the longer he remains in a comfortable jumble with these two, the harder it is to distinguish between all their slight movements and altered breathing.
This is different than Midoriya's habitually reciprocal touches. Here, he is to give more, he thinks. That's the surging call and response that makes his chest implode like a star, that shift into someone's heart with a touch, a word, an observation, an action. Later, Midoriya will look back and wonder when exactly it became so with Paul or Kaworu, and, due to the intense way he feels about close friends in general, he honestly cannot say.
He should do this properly, whatever that means. (He's still preoccupied with should, clinging to any knowledge he has of something so foreign.) He pulls his hand away from Paul and cups the back of Kaworu's head. It's a familiar gesture in an unfamiliar context. He presses him closer. He matches Kaworu's firmness, copying him for lack of instruction, and tries to build on it. He finds his own mouth more pliant than he thought. It opens on Kaworu's, and Midoriya makes a small hum in his throat, half apology, half something else. His hand splays on his shirt, fingers dipping in the funnel of his lower spine and the edge of one hip. He gently brushes his fingers down through his hair and finds the shorter gossamer above the nape of his neck.
He wants to give and give and give, but--careful. Midoriya is still finding his dear friend (what does he call him now?) in his explorations. He is responsible for someone in his arms.
He breaks the kiss and presses his curls to Kaworu's forehead. He looks at Kaworu, and at Paul. Was it too much? Not enough? His hands, at least, remain sure. He bears a similar expression to when they teased him about his personal name and left him sitting on the bed pink-faced, lips slightly parted, eyes round. Here, the difference is the quick rise and fall of his chest, made quicker by the look on Paul's face: in need. It calls Midoriya as inexorably as a command.
He slips his hand where he had it before in his dark curls and shifts up to him without thought. He has the spatial awareness to maneuver over a person in one smooth motion, but he does not expect the slide of his body against two others to be so--like that--particularly when he doesn't want to relinquish his other arm's press on Kaworu. Thus, he's breathless and hapless as he hovers his lips over Paul's waiting for him to accept or refuse what is offered, Kaworu's taste still on him.
no subject
This is different than Midoriya's habitually reciprocal touches. Here, he is to give more, he thinks. That's the surging call and response that makes his chest implode like a star, that shift into someone's heart with a touch, a word, an observation, an action. Later, Midoriya will look back and wonder when exactly it became so with Paul or Kaworu, and, due to the intense way he feels about close friends in general, he honestly cannot say.
He should do this properly, whatever that means. (He's still preoccupied with should, clinging to any knowledge he has of something so foreign.) He pulls his hand away from Paul and cups the back of Kaworu's head. It's a familiar gesture in an unfamiliar context. He presses him closer. He matches Kaworu's firmness, copying him for lack of instruction, and tries to build on it. He finds his own mouth more pliant than he thought. It opens on Kaworu's, and Midoriya makes a small hum in his throat, half apology, half something else. His hand splays on his shirt, fingers dipping in the funnel of his lower spine and the edge of one hip. He gently brushes his fingers down through his hair and finds the shorter gossamer above the nape of his neck.
He wants to give and give and give, but--careful. Midoriya is still finding his dear friend (what does he call him now?) in his explorations. He is responsible for someone in his arms.
He breaks the kiss and presses his curls to Kaworu's forehead. He looks at Kaworu, and at Paul. Was it too much? Not enough? His hands, at least, remain sure. He bears a similar expression to when they teased him about his personal name and left him sitting on the bed pink-faced, lips slightly parted, eyes round. Here, the difference is the quick rise and fall of his chest, made quicker by the look on Paul's face: in need. It calls Midoriya as inexorably as a command.
He slips his hand where he had it before in his dark curls and shifts up to him without thought. He has the spatial awareness to maneuver over a person in one smooth motion, but he does not expect the slide of his body against two others to be so--like that--particularly when he doesn't want to relinquish his other arm's press on Kaworu. Thus, he's breathless and hapless as he hovers his lips over Paul's waiting for him to accept or refuse what is offered, Kaworu's taste still on him.