Lestat knows he looks composed. Decades of practise have removed self-consciousness from how he holds himself in his mind's eye, his every gesture and movement such that he rarely breaks the lines of his clothes in any way he doesn't care for. This world may have taken some of his gifts, but it cannot remove his lifetimes of experience.

That isn't to say he doesn't like to fuss over his appearance. Quite the opposite. It's a pleasure exceeded only by watching Louis do the same, as he always did before they went anywhere, and by being the subject of his fussing in turn. He submits gladly to Louis' absent-minded ministration, the delight in his eyes mingling with a deeper, warmer vein of contentment.

He could almost forget their circumstances, like this. Transport himself back to countless early evenings at the threshold of their shared home. In that nostalgic spirit, he picks Louis' hand up in an unrepressed swoop and presses his knuckles to Lestat's freshly dabbed lips, then lets them fall away with the outer trappings of his exuberance. He composes a mask of solemnity over his features, betrayed only by Louis' familiarity with the persistent sparkle in his gaze.

"I'll behave myself," he assures Louis, a promise he even intends to keep until they're back out of sight. "You look the very picture of decorum."