Jedao wails, a wounded wanting yearning sound, as much for being called beautiful even with his blood showing as for the fresh cuts that underscore it, that prove he means it, or at least isn't repulsed. Jedao shudders and almost seems to melt against the cross, every last bit of tension draining out of him, floating in the sheer loveliness of the pain, the way his whole back is tender and aching, the way the cuts feel so startlingly vivid and alive.