It laughs, rolling and cackling and delighted, even as Fives finds a hand, breaks some of those spindly, too-long fingerbones. Jedao rakes the broken edges across his chest, not aiming to stab and damage, just to mark and sting. He is twisting, surging, impossible to get a sense of or a proper grip on.

There are wounds in him that he has not let touch Fives before, that Fives did not make, but they are there; when he gets a hand in one and tries to tear it becomes a mouth sucking on his fingers. When Fives tries to bite, it only kisses him, wraps closer around him.