Phillip cocks his head slightly, taking the point- easy is not how they do things, and even though from the outside this may look like an escape he knows very well it is not. This is, in a way, facing it head on, in the only way they really can when words have failed them so very thoroughly. He may not have a bard's stone, but he understands the instinct and the need that comes with it, to find some way, any way, to express what needs to be.

He doesn't usually interfere with Gustavain's more practiced undressing, unless he's the one disposing of the clothes himself. From his seat, he reaches out to brush the tips of his fingers of the newly exposed skin, light as if it was entirely new flesh. What is the man shedding this time, he wonders? Warrior of Light? Azem? Gustavain? He doubts he knows yet; likely it is the pursuit of discovering what is left behind that they'll have anything resembling an answer.

Once his shirt is off, Phillip shifts in the chair so he's facing him and lefts his hands drift, falling to the bones of his hips. There's a moment where blue eyes glance up through dark lashes before he leans forward to press his lips above his abs. It's so soft and tender than some might call it worshipful, reverent- but knowing Phillip as he does, the ache in it is clear.