Section of an In Progress Novel of Mine!! [521]

I’m hoping to evoke an unsettling feeling here. I intended to make the narrator quite obsessive and creepy, almost excessively, to create a contrast before and after a climactic event in the story. Let me know how to improve, as well as how I can better build my desired tone! 

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I laughed heartily, turning his hand back and forth between mine. “You think you can teach a soul?” 

Ivan was not laughing. “I have severed your soul twice now, and in both instances, its emanance had moved from where it resided last. I would look for it, and once I had found it, it moved again, like it was avoiding me!” 

Clicking my tongue, I mused fondly, “and here we thought the soul did not move.” I paused. “How long have you known this?” 

Ivan hesitated, breath stuttering. He would open his mouth, only to quickly snap it shut. He shifted his weight away from me, then leaned into the touch of my hand. 
Seconds ticked by. Ivan’s gaze started to search his glass-sharded palm for answers—and, well, my eyes had an innate right of their own, did they not?: I could not help but notice his navy sweater first, for I recognized every stain across the fabric. Each one carried a different story, a different Ivan, and I favored one’s reminder of how I spilled my signature coffee across his abdomen, through cloth. His sweater pulled tight across his arms, and wide at his torso, and Ivan never paid it any mind, but I find that to simply be an, innocent, ignorance. My eyes, next, traced the rows of his teeth, and while I noticed, memorized, every indent, every blemish, I was more drawn to how his teeth trembled, how his tongue curled, as if he wanted to bite down.  That is not simply an inference: I knew the shape of his tongue from our shared words, better than any lover of his could; I learned how it ran across his teeth when he wanted to say something he should not—how it clung to the room of his mouth when he could not breathe. I knew his teeth, too, more than I knew my own; after all, his roughish smiles were not difficult to compel, rising under only my words, only my gaze, only my touch; his lips, too—his lips were incredibly telling, whether they parted or pressed together tightly. And at that special moment, his upper lip pushed down, then back up, once, twice, three times, before it settled. If only he grasped at his throat, forcing his words into our open air, I would do nothing, but quiet, and feel his voice fester within me. Ivan was my greatest, my only, friend, and I could see him leaving this lab either, by death, or, by choice, never. 
Finally, Ivan’s throat thrummed with words, but they shook. He left my eyes hastily, hurrying out of the room as he mumbled a goodnight wish. I would come to dress his wounds later.

Here is my critique!!: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1t7s5ge/comment/ol3c2vg/?context=1&screen_view_count=2