Paul looks as bewildered as Midoriya did last night when he realized he never thought of himself as through the eyes of the other two. For a moment, he's afraid he's misstepped and made Paul uncomfortable. He's relieved he waited for him. It felt right to, as Paul had not made himself clear like Kaworu.
Midoriya can only respond one way when he looks at him like that. As Paul shyly moves to him, he slips his scarred hand more securely behind his head, deep in the messy riot of his curls. His arm forms a protective curve. Midoriya gives himself over to the dark red world of his eyelids, the press of Paul's arm, the skip of his breath, and the echo of Kaworu's.
He clutches Kaworu tight enough to know the shape of his ribs, as if they are all in flight rather than safely ensconced in a bed. Paul didn't give him guidance like Kaworu did. Midoriya feels like he missed a step on the stairs. His hand in Paul's hair is sure, but he fumbles his lips before finding his way. He smooths Paul's cracked mouth with the soft dampness of his own, what little knowledge he has, and the deep tenderness he feels for him.
His smell-taste is different from Kaworu's. Midoriya wants to take Paul's darkling windswept one and Kaworu's pale sky-sea one and gently press these petals between the leaves of a book in his mind. He doesn't care all three of them are well-fermented from imbibing last night. The time they shared together--amusing, singular, awkward, soft, and asleep--mingled and made them heady.
Over the months, Paul taught him a closer language of touch. He recalls the arms they have woven around each other in urgent comfort. He feels, again, his heart pressed close against his. (Surely everyone can hear the thundering of his own.) Paul's shape should be familiar even just from the strikes and tackles they have practiced. It has been made new here.
Midoriya contends for something of that familiarity and tries to bolster Paul with the challenge he presses against his mouth. Unexpectedly, teeth graze against his own--
"Is this okay?" he whispers lowly with a hot breath, opening watchful eyes bare with apprehension. His full pupils draw in at the light, but only a little.
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Midoriya can only respond one way when he looks at him like that. As Paul shyly moves to him, he slips his scarred hand more securely behind his head, deep in the messy riot of his curls. His arm forms a protective curve. Midoriya gives himself over to the dark red world of his eyelids, the press of Paul's arm, the skip of his breath, and the echo of Kaworu's.
He clutches Kaworu tight enough to know the shape of his ribs, as if they are all in flight rather than safely ensconced in a bed. Paul didn't give him guidance like Kaworu did. Midoriya feels like he missed a step on the stairs. His hand in Paul's hair is sure, but he fumbles his lips before finding his way. He smooths Paul's cracked mouth with the soft dampness of his own, what little knowledge he has, and the deep tenderness he feels for him.
His smell-taste is different from Kaworu's. Midoriya wants to take Paul's darkling windswept one and Kaworu's pale sky-sea one and gently press these petals between the leaves of a book in his mind. He doesn't care all three of them are well-fermented from imbibing last night. The time they shared together--amusing, singular, awkward, soft, and asleep--mingled and made them heady.
Over the months, Paul taught him a closer language of touch. He recalls the arms they have woven around each other in urgent comfort. He feels, again, his heart pressed close against his. (Surely everyone can hear the thundering of his own.) Paul's shape should be familiar even just from the strikes and tackles they have practiced. It has been made new here.
Midoriya contends for something of that familiarity and tries to bolster Paul with the challenge he presses against his mouth. Unexpectedly, teeth graze against his own--
"Is this okay?" he whispers lowly with a hot breath, opening watchful eyes bare with apprehension. His full pupils draw in at the light, but only a little.