The empty sort of smile that spreads across Louis's lips and stops at his eyes is the most abhorrent kind. Louis doesn’t like feeling this way, and he can become quite disagreeable too, but sometimes he watches himself like a terrible moving picture. At least they make a pretty one, the two handsome gentlemen who arrange themselves so nicely around each other.

“Are you master of death as well? I think you forgot to tell me. It ain’t just vampires that abhor the dissectin’ table so much that they’ll delude themselves into thinkin’ it can’t turn up anythin’.” He raises his eyebrows pointedly at him.

“I expected to ease myself into the different eras as I got older. This place is a century ahead, and very suddenly. They got kids talkin’ about blood experiments. They got things in their schoolbooks I ain’t never heard of. A little harder than just a new wardrobe, mon cher.”

Or even a new accent, another to add to a vampire’s long years of amalgamation. His fingers gently pinch the lapel of Lestat’s jacket with a familiarity he didn’t have when he, then human, convinced Lestat to dress in the twentieth century.