[ it's strange how memories or the course of predestination worked. despite his extended existence in the world, it doesn't become anymore comprehensible to him. the dull sensation of warmth he may have shared with his bride, the intense longing that's been seared into his flames, and moments like these where despite how dissimilar his physical form is, the rhythm of their mutual heartbeats feel one and the same. except, is his rising too quickly?

he feels like it is, and as usual, he does his best to circumvent making this fact too obvious. which means, he turns the attention back to wriothesley, which isn't too hard when he's just a touch away. there's a playful glint in his eyes, as if masking his desire as he tilts his head, just ever so slightly as his hands move a bit lower, finger getting "caught" on the first button, which has it undone in a snap.

he mouths a quiet sort of "oops" as he then looks back up to his last sentence. why was he here, indeed. ] I don't know. Maybe I just thought I should do more house calls. Especially when your gaze seems to be wandering towards other artworks.

"A time with Terry," for example. [ he says as if he were reciting a name of a piece in a gallery. but, there's something a bit more serious to his gaze that suggests, there's far more to it. ] I might have felt if your eyes wandered too far, they'd never come back.