terriblepurpose | Deer Country Contact

"Gross, Paul-kun," he mumbles without any heat or shying away, fully aware of the contrast between one clean lick on his shoulder and the entire wet bedraggled rest of them. Midoriya's messy hand lies still somewhere between them, slick and useless.

He strokes his clean fingers over Paul's ear. He very nearly brings his hand back to push Paul's face away in the sassy way Kaworu sometimes does when he's been teased or licked. Midoriya settles for giving him a look instead. His eyes follow his impossibly long lashes and--like Paul himself--the strong yet delicately-formed bridge of his nose. His mouth is always artfully shaped and too ready to slip nimbly from one expression to the next. He will never tire of looking at him.

"I love you too," he says with his throat suddenly tight, and he shuts his stinging eyes and buries his mouth against Paul's forehead. He kisses the silt and hair stuck to it. The swings of mood and emotion come less frequently than when he was younger, but they still catch him by surprise sometimes. (He shouldn't be surprised; he just got done being very vulnerable with him.) The corners of his smile tremble, but always upward.

"I missed you," he tries to explain.

Paul can manage to clasp Midoriya closer with an arm he can only use up to the wrist. His other hand, only lightly streaked with silt, worms up between them so he can curve it over the nape of Midoriya's neck as if securing him in place. He strokes his thumb over a tense tendon and bites the inside of his own swollen lip.

"I know. I missed you too," he tells him, with quiet understanding. There's no need to explain any further, not this time. Paul knows. He feels the echo of their separation in his own heart, even though he wasn't there for any of it.

(But he was, in a way. The man contained the boy he once was, and now the boy contains the man he will not be. He swims with foreign and familiar memory, his other self hidden behind a thick curtain of blessed emotive inertia. Still. It lingers.)

"That's probably why I got a little carried away by myself." He breathes in deeply, a little shiver bouncing back up his spine, and kisses the fullness of Midoriya's cheek. "Not that I'm sorry for that. I am for - other things, but...today is a good day. It's happy. So let's be happy, because we're both here, and you're not getting rid of me again for a long time, all right?"

"Yeah," he agrees tremulously. "I got carried away too. I'm really happy. I'm so blessed."

His chest feels like it's swelling to burst. Though his voice trembles and a few tears leak out of his eyes, that's the end of it. He is happy, happy enough to be moved to tears, and he prefers to pass through the emotion and all its turbulence rather than tamp it down.

He circles his thumb over the start of Paul's jaw and the delicate skin below his ear. He could stay here forever, face half buried in Paul's muddy hair, but he chooses not to listen to the languidness of afterglow.

"Let's go home. I have..." he sighs, short and practical but still gentle, "one handkerchief, if I remembered to bring it, and wipes in my first aid kit."

He chooses a cleansing shower, inviting Kaworu to soak with them in a subsequent bath, and birthday dinner--and other activities he strongly suspects will happen with enthusiasm.

Everything Midoriya feels shines out of him like sunlight. Even down here in the warm throbbing heart of the world, Paul can tilt his face into that radiance and soak it in like any other tender green thing. He shifts to kiss the dew at the corner of Midoriya's eyes and thinks about that word, blessed, as he levers up to sitting. He never appreciated how deeply he could understand its definition when he was younger. He supposes that's part of getting older.

"Let's just use my shirt, and I'll button my coat up to the neck," Paul suggests, hunting around for said shirt and offering it to Midoriya first, like a gentleman. He's definitely feeling especially sentimental in the pleasant buzz of post-coital hormones, because even that little pragmatic, unlovely detail seems luminous and sacred.

"I'll do laundry tomorrow." He trails his fingers lightly over the span of Midoriya's arm, the slats of his ribs, and anything else he can skim within the reach of his hand without getting in the way. "No need to use up your first aid kit."

Paul remembers almost everything. He'll make a special place for this memory, the soft blue mingled shadow and glow of it.

He stares up again at the speckled lights in the ceiling. He could analyze what makes this feel magical down to their surroundings and the inner workings of their bodies, but he doesn't. Sometimes he does remember not to spoil the moment.

"I'll do it," he murmurs sluggishly. "I was an accomplice. Don't think about the laundry you'll have to do."

How gallant of Paul to offer his shirt. Midoriya wants to return the gallantry in turn. Despite his pragmatism, he's reluctant to move. It's easy for his eyes to slide over to Paul with a soft smile. He just spent his desire, so Paul's touch doesn't stoke that specific dark heat, but it is the comfort of closeness they share, two bodies as one. He sighs happily just to feel his chest rise and fall under Paul's hand.

"You'll look like you've been pranked by Kaworu-kun. Have you ever noticed that our shirts tend to disappear at the same time he looks like he's up to something?" Of course Paul has noticed, and probably before Midoriya ever saw a pattern. It's not really a question. When he's done, he conscientiously folds Paul's shirt and hands it to him.

It isn't until he's on his feet finishing fastening his pants that it occurs to him that getting dressed by himself is different than getting dressed with a beloved when that beloved likes to look at him--as Paul's fingers told him just moments ago. Midoriya has never taken to being conscious of angles and lighting, and he's pretty sure he doesn't have a good side, but his luminous eyes dart shyly to Paul as he deliberately slows his movements. He takes his sweet time gathering his sweater.

Paul accepts the stained shirt with a still slightly dizzy smile, attending to his own sticky situation without taking his eyes away from the newest gift he's being offered. As far as Paul is concerned, Midoriya doesn't have a bad side.

"I should learn how to sculpt," he says, admiring the shifting landscape of Midoriya's arms, "Someone should preserve all of that for future generations, so they can weep in lamentation at not living at the same time as such a specimen. And they won't even know that you also did laundry."

He gets up carefully, resisting the languid drag of his limbs. He'll be getting carried all the way home. He can manage to get himself on his own feet and track down his own coat, although he doesn't mind reciprocating Midoriya's thoughtfulness in being sure to bend over in a particular way when he retrieves the rest of his discarded belongings.

"...you know, if we wanted to get him back for all the shirt theft, we could convince him I was asking him to do our laundry." Paul glances over his shoulder, a sly smile teasing the corner of his mouth. "Do you think he'd agree to do it, or would he threaten to throw out all our clothes?"

Edited 2023-07-22 02:11 (UTC)

As usual, Midoriya's overactive imagination gets the better of him: If Paul sculpted him in his lifetime, what would it be like to have people looking at "all of that"? But it's "laundry" that ultimately makes him splutter and turn bright red. Belatedly he chucks his sweater at Paul's head.

"He'd throw out all my clothes because they're 'boring'..." he supposes. Isn't that just Midoriya's lot in life?

And now he has to retrieve his sweater from this damnably handsome person who knows how to bend over. He can't stop staring at the shift of light muscle and the graceful lines his arms make... even if his hair is in unmentionable shape.

Adding insult to injury, Paul snags the sweater effortlessly out of the air before it can fully entangle his head, although the loose sleeves still wrap around his face and lightly muffle his laugh. He unfolds to standing even more deliberately than he stooped in the first place, his own clothes draped over one arm and Midoriya's sweater held to his chest.

"He'd say that was why." Paul tilts his head, looking thoughtfully at Midoriya's arms. "I think we both know why he really wants to get rid of all of our clothes...and right now, I have to admit, I'm very tempted to follow his example and keep this sweater. You'd have to hold me extra close to keep yourself warm, but..."

As if he could actually keep Midoriya from reclaiming it - or would actually make him go without, for reasons practical and personal. Still. It is a thought.

Now Paul's just being incorrigible, and showing off his reflexes to boot. The state of his hair doesn't stop Paul from looking so smug (or so sly). Midoriya wastes no time putting his arms around him and tugging him close, but he doesn't grab the sweater.

"I'd hold you tight anyway. Give me my sweater or I'll freeze," he mumbles into Paul's shoulder, as if his face isn't still recovering from flushing.

If he tried to reclaim it the hard way, the sweater might not survive such roughhousing. His old dress shirt nearly saw its final days when he fought Bakugou in God's bathroom.

Midoriya's hair is an absolute mess. Paul sticks his face in it and huffs anyway, his laughter a low roll in his chest as he drapes the sweater in question around Midoriya's shoulders.

"We can't have you freezing," he agrees, then tongues some stray intrusive hair out of his mouth. "You're getting better at negotiating. Using yourself as collateral - very clever."

More absolute nonsense. Paul is still giddy with the events of the day, and a parallel passes unnoticed: he doesn't think he's been this carefree since those illusory days under that untrustworthy roof. The difference is that this roof, this peace, they built together, brick by brick.

"Stop eating my hair or, uh, I'll freeze."

Midoriya is the king of nonsense. He knows Paul isn't eating his hair. Sometimes Midoriya thinks he will never need to own a cat. He has two, and their names are Paul and Kaworu.

He pulls his sweater over his head, mud and all, eyes peeking over the neck. He loves Paul's laughter, something he grew to hear more of as he let down his guard bit by bit. This isn't the first time Midoriya has tugged Paul into the dirt either, though the context was different then. They were different then.

He muses wonderingly, "You only ever call me 'Izu' when you're..."

He thinks of a dozen words and immediately discards all of them as he flushes (again) hard enough to resemble a strawberry. It suddenly occurs to him that this would be a very good time to start looking around and guesstimating the exit route from this chamber to the entrance via One For All.

This time, Paul flushes in near unison with Midoriya, also suddenly deciding it's a good time to do a last look around for any tangible evidence of their presence besides - well, looking at the glistening patch of cave floor where they'd curled together doesn't do much to distract him, actually.

"I," he starts, then begins to reach for his hair to brush it back, then thinks better of it, "I suppose I just started doing it, and- it stuck."

He wonders if it's some clinging social more of his upbringing or something intrinsic to himself that makes him more embarrassed to talk about this kind of intimacy than the more directly physical sort. The fact he wonders goes to show how briefly ruffled he is, because he knows there's no meaningful way to mark the distinction.

Paul cuts a glance sideways. A tiny smile returns to his lips, which are still slightly swollen and pinked from kissing, almost as shy as Midoriya's own smiles can sometimes be.

"Do you like it?"

This must be why Kaworu gets so exasperated with them. They habitually clutch a blanket around what he expresses in bare candidness. Midoriya very carefully doesn't look at the disturbed swathes of mud on the spot where they just lay, and his face remains strawberry pink.

There's something sweet about a beloved looking at him askance with a sentiment too bright to directly behold or speak into being. There is only so long Midoriya can be abashed before familiarity takes precedence. Midoriya was smiling with embarrassment before, but now he stops straightening his sweater unnecessarily and bites his lip to suppress a giggle of true humor. (His lip is tender from the attention of Paul's teeth.)

"Yes." Breathlessly, yes. It's not the act of saying his name, but the act of doing it, the process of starting his name and being unable to finish it. It's the person doing it and how he does it in need, breathlessly.

If Midoriya speaks normally, his voice will squeak, or leave him, or be too suggestive, and then they will never get out of here. He resists the urge to plant kisses all over Paul's little smile for that same reason.

"Get dressed and come on. You've still got a lot of birthday left."

Edited 2023-08-19 21:42 (UTC)

Paul laughs lightly, colour still high in his cheeks, even as he captures the sound of Midoriya's breathy yes and fixes it to himself like pressing a flower between the pages of a book. The look he gives Midoriya directly is deeply fond, his shyness banished like mist by sunlight.

If he let himself get carried away, he might convince himself he's warm enough from that alone not to need to be dressed. That's a sentimental thought to have and not act on. Besides the realities of cold weather, Midoriya is even less likely to be persuaded to cart a half-dressed Paul around than he is to go without layers himself.

Biddable for the time being, Paul finishes dressing without further distraction. He smiles at the sight of the tiny cave salamanders peering from the peripheries they'd retreated to, still curious about the strange interlopers. He wonders how much they can see. Likely little but great silhouettes in the glow.

"I'm ready," he says, once he is, clothing sorted out and every stray object collected, "Yours to carry off."

He comes close to sling his arms around Midoriya, tarrying just long enough to press a quick kiss to the tip of his nose.

Somehow, almost mother-like, Midoriya cares more about Paul bundling against the elements than himself. (And then there are the stares they would get while entering their building, too embarrassing for Midoriya no matter how nice he thinks Paul looks without a top.)

He gathers his things into the backpack and hooks the Moon Orb lantern onto it. His only command to Paul is to cradle his head long enough to brush their noses together before circling an arm around his waist.

"...Mine," he repeats softly, unused to saying that often. He doesn't broadcast it out of habit, nor is he possessive even in jest. The one time he loudly asserted it, he was afraid a Pthumerian would rip Paul away.

"Ours," he says more clearly with a sure thrum in the bottom of his throat.

Then, in unison born of practice, he jumps with super strength to climb out with Blackwhip. Through the cave system and wriggling through the entrance fissure, they will leap back to their Angel, who enjoys being carried by strong arms as well.

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