He hums and shivers enough to draw out the kiss he matches with his own firmness. Louis has to work hard to not respond too readily with enthusiasm that could very well doom them here and now. Well, doesn't Lestat look satisfied as a well-fed cat! Louis curiously ducks his head closer, as if he can pry whatever it is Lestat chose not to say. (Now there's a miracle.) Louis thought the young boy who wanted to study with monks and was brought back and beaten could have been innocent, but it could be Lestat dealt the final blow to the child himself. Violence begets violence.

"Un moment," he replies. He licks his lips, demurely savoring the taste with thoughts that are anything but demure. He dabs at them with his handkerchief. His hands straighten the collar of his jacket, adjust his cuffs, and go through all the familiar motions of making himself presentable, though he has no dressing mirror, only Lestat to tell him how he looks.

Lestat looks so ridiculous bowing like a character in a stage play that Louis nearly laughs. He reaches up and delicately rubs away a small spot of red on Lestat's lips. Louis is reminded of women and lipstick and kissing loved ones. It's oddly homey.

Before unlocking and opening the door, he glances once over his shoulder at Lestat to check if he's composed himself from pink-flushed insouciance. If Lestat thinks his own gaiety irresistible, he has called Louis's unexpectedly soft looks the same. (Maybe deep in the night they'll light two precious cigarettes tip to tip and cup their hands around the orange embers.)