There's more weight on him, suddenly, and more heat; he might be sweating on his front, despite the growing numbness of his back. A hand with too many finger joints wraps around his scalp, trying and failing to grab his short hair; after a few moments it wraps around his throat instead, not too tight to breath, just close and firm. There's a taste in Fives' mouth like rust and ashes and ozone, and the tongue pushes in deeper.