Fives is too tired, too lax and sated, to care about the strangeness. It's just one with everything that's come before, and it's... comforting. The warmth and gentleness of it. Multiple soft tongues, gentle hands, stubbled jaws, the press of soft, dense fur keeping the cold of this barren place from him as he just drifts, too tired even for the fear and shame that's dominated every one of his waking and even sleeping moments for all the weeks since Umbara. Even the chirping is strangely pleasant, the happiness of it unmistakable, and when the creature kisses him again he kisses back, slow and tired and sloppy.