There are times Paul finds himself at odds with his body like he never was before the world fell apart in his hands, and then there are times, like this one, where he remembers what it is to be wholly attuned to himself. He kisses slickly to the corner of Kaworu's mouth as the angel speaks, arching under the enclosure of Midoriya's firm thigh, his free hand not sunk in Kaworu's hair searching out the tender place that Midoriya reveals by hiking up his shirt.

"Couldn't let you be cold," Paul tells him, layered with heat and meaning that also extends well past physical temperature. But it is warm, a spreading ache of relief under the salve of these other, much-cared for selves. He traces the bruise with lightly skimming fingers that happen to brush Kaworu's bared hip, idly flitting between them with new assurance.

It's like a dive, and like a dance. It's like picking up a perfectly balanced knife and setting the hilt in his palm. It's like all and none of those things, a sense of knowing, at last, what it is he should do, no matter what stumbles might mark his progress.

"I want you to feel nice," he says to both of them, the low ripple of promise back in his voice, and he sets about learning how to do just that.