Gilmore smiled at the light touch to his skin, then leaning into the hand in his hair. Hearing his mother tongue spoken back to him was a new kind of pleasure, his gaze dropping to J'mon's lips to watch the words as they formed.
It flicked straight back up to meet their eyes at the suggestion in their statement. His heart skipped, his pupils dilating fractionally. Gilmore opened his mouth to speak, then closed it quickly again to smile.
"You tempt me," he managed eventually. "Though perhaps I've said that to you more than once in our future. For now I can only imagine." And that was certainly something to imagine. He looked his host very pointedly up and down, admiration and want evident in his expression. With a lingering touch, Gilmore let J'mon go, never taking his eyes off of them.
His heart was beating even quicker, though his interest was piqued. "Thank you for the honor," he said, taking the canvas and unrolling it slowly, admiring the skill in his likeness. Fondness swelled in Gilmore's chest, exhaled in a deep sigh. There was definite affection in the way the lines of his body were committed to the page. He was no model, he knew that, he wasn't the kind of man who was asked to sit for paintings, no one was writing poems about his body, but it was clear that J'mon had enjoyed the view.
"You flatter me," he said with sincerity. "In these lines. I-" Gilmore touched his own chest, his torso, almost pleased that he was still as soft now as he would be in their future. "-I won't take this from you. But I'll sit for you whenever you desire. As often as you desire." Folding the scroll up again, he handed it back. "I hope your Gilmore extended you the same offer."