He makes a low, soft, aching noise, halfway between a groan and a whimper, as if to corroborate Fives' suspicions. Jedao feels empty now, deserted, incomplete, and he scrambles shakily to get himself turned over, the muscles shifting in his back and shoulders as he gets his arms under him, weight shifting as he gets his knees spread apart.

"Put - put your other hand on my back," he instructs, some weird bad instinct tweaking a little at knowing Fives is behind him and not seeing him, the shapes of their shadows tangled unrecognizably between the plain overhead lights and the rumpled mounds and valleys of the sheets. He just needs - more touch, a clear point of reference, a way to place Fives apart from what Fives is doing to him.