Currently, he couldn't make sense of the sensations mixing so strangely, pain and pleasure and heat and cold, all lingering on his skin. His forehead was damp with a cool sweat, hands clammy, and he'd abandoned his desperate scratching at the carpet from sheer exhaustion, instead expressing his discomfort completely unwittingly by that low, keening whine that consistently kept going in his throat. He was dizzy, and closing his eyes made him nauseated, so Mello kept them open, watching Sephiroth's face without really paying attention, just using it as a focal point.