He closes his eyes, sucking on John's fingertips for a few self-indulgent moments before bursting the grape between his back teeth; John gets the fresh sweetness of it juxtaposed with the harsh metal-mineral bitterness of Jedao's anatomy parsing something in the fruit as not food, that nevertheless picks up grace notes of the grape's tannins, along with a little rill of unreasonable delight from Jedao. It's so unexpected, every time, a warm visceral shock, eating something and being completely free of even a hint of awfulness. The juicy texture of the grape unmarred, for him, with any flavor at all, as lovely and restful as a blank white page.