"Yeah, I'll let you kn- oh, oh fuck," he promises, then chokes. Fives' fingers are thicker than his, but most of all they're just different. The sudden feeling of someone else touching him so intimately is overwhelming, amazing, as impossible to replicate alone as tickling himself would be. He clenches reflexively, teeth grinding in sympathetic harmony, then relaxes.

"You've got such gorgeous fucking hands, god," he mutters, sounding almost as aggravated as he does aroused. The girls stuck them with the dishes the night before, and it had been everything he could do not to stare at Fives' hands then, dark and square against the nice china dinner plates, a comparison out of cliché as if to taunt him with the broad size of them.