"Sometimes I think there's not enough of me to contain how much," says Dorian, very solemnly, then: "Do stop fussing, I'm not ill. Just terribly--bloody besotted."

His tone of voice says he'd rather be ill, which is somewhat at odds with all the twitterpation on his face. Or the continued squishing close. "Maker, these blighted plants ought to be wiped from the earth." He pets Bull's chest a little, making a face at how it's obstructed by the suit. Bull's chest is a work of art that ought to be shared with the world.

Apparently there's no staving this off by will alone, so after another moment of relentless draping Dorian decides, "Come along, we must find somewhere to wait this out. Imagine if everyone thought I went round simply saying these things. Though I only don't due to years of poorly performed emotional repression."