He hears the constant sounds escaping the body under him. A gasp at every touch, a soft mewl when tongue met hot skin, a guttural groan when stroked in the right spot. Their friction against the cold tile beneath them creates little sounds that harmonize with their symphony of moans.
He feels the softness of his skin with his curious tongue and exploring hands. The boy trembles in his arms as he continues to thrust into him, reveling in how tight he is, how his warmth seems to surround him. He shudders as the pleasure consumes him and fireworks explode behind his eyes, pouring every last bit of himself into the body under him.
What he doesn't feel is the brittle texture of skin, so cold that it burns. He doesn't hear the almost silence, except for a stray squeak or two. He doesn't see skin and hair completely pervaded with darkness, blending in with the floor below.
He doesn't see the blank, empty yellow eyes, looking nowhere at all.