"Fives," Jedao breathes, can barely think for wanting, for craving, for the hunger and sheer awe that coil tighter and tighter and never release; he has no body to hit its limits, and not even any real sense through the shadow, but he pretends that he does, that he can feel the hot sticky mess dripping down his face, down his chest, that he can lick it off his lips and has to wipe it out of his eyelashes.