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Wet. Louis’ lips were wet. His fingertips were wet. His cheeks were soaked. The collar of his shirt drenched and crumpled. Socks rendered transparent from the falling rain. His shoes, removed before entering the coffin - now likely filled up with water, whisked away and floating across The Mississippi.
Louis had never cared less for discomfort.
The worn coffin smelt of rainwater, the air was thick and muggy and full - delightfully full of Lestat. Lestat who’d finally let his eyes close, in sleep hadn’t loosened his grip on Louis. His sharp hands remained curled around his sleeves, head tucked desperately between his neck and shoulder while his cheek pressed into the sliver of skin exposed there, transfixed, as if he were blinding Polaris calling him close.
Thick, loud rain dripped onto the flimsy roof. Louis could hear stray droplets knock into the coffin’s top, feel their impact egged on by raging winds. If the tiny shelter were to crumble around them he still, still wouldn’t untangle his limbs from Lestat’s.
They could be swept up into the eye of the damn storm and Louis was certain their legs would remain wound together, their bodies embraced until forced out.
“Louis…” Lestat whispered, not yet asleep, or maybe not quite awake. “…Louis - ”
His tone dripped with an ache that Louis could feel in the pit of his heart, that flooded him as if a dam had broken. An ache Louis had kept enclosed for decades, all locked up in an empty room to fester and starve. Now that he’d unlocked the door, it was seething, longing to be heard. It wasn’t something he could hold back anymore, he had to feel the cacophony of all the wounds he’d haphazardly stitched shut. Decades and decades of them unwound in Lestat’s wet, dark, warm coffin.
“I’m here,” Louis said, doing all he could to keep his voice from shaking.
It made his words quiet, but he knew Lestat could feel them brush against his hairline. Yet, Louis pulled him further into his arms - just in case he wasn’t strong enough to discern their intent.
“I’m here.”
Lestat trembled, his nose pressed to Louis neck as he inhaled. But he didn’t open his eyes, clung to the haze of sleep, spoke with a distant reverence.
“Mmm - oui, here,” he smiled, for a moment. A twinkle in the dark.
Lestat’s breathing stopped as he fell asleep. But his hand tightened on Louis’ sleeve, sharp nails poking holes in the fabric. It didn’t matter, he’d packed plenty more. He’d allow Lestat to pierce through deeper, down to his muscle, dig into his marrow if it meant that he’d feel his touch every day. Now that he’s there, in his arms, even if grimy and soaked-through and small - Louis isn’t sure if he’ll ever want to let go.
A petrifying notion. The kind that he knows can trip him up, have him plummeting into an abyss lined with Lestat. With Lestat at the bottom. Lestat at the top of the cliff, arms still extended from pushing him down in the first place.
Louis had just just started to learn how to stand steady on his own feet. Lestat did not asked him to stay. For that he’s thankful. His answer’s unclear.
Despite the pull of the sun’s rise, Louis held eyes open. He didn’t want to unweave from Lestat, spawned out of an arcane fear he’d disappear. Even though, he never has. He’s remained a constant inside him for his entire undead life - he carries him perpetually.
Louis let his fingers slide down Lestat’s neck, where he could feel the tip of his spine through his flimsy robe. Another relic of a past life, of his clinging to what once was, concerning proof that he’s remained in stasis. He feels cold, and minuscule - a notion his memories hadn’t taken the time to grasp. In his mind, Lestat has been a sun, large and warm and foreboding. Dangerously gorgeous.
The Lestat in his arms is none of these things. He’s fractured, still beautiful but small. Smaller than he’s ever seen him. Louis raised a hand to brush back slick, greasy, golden hair from his face, to run his thumb over the crust of dried blood tears under his eyes. Lestat stirred, briefly, shuffled closer to Louis despite the impossibility - they've been entwined before he’d even boarded the plane.
Outside the coffin, earlier, Louis had held Lestat too. While the wind whirled through the walls, dragged debris through the streets. It was only when the windows cracked open, sprinkled glass onto them like jagged snow that Lestat perked his head up, and pulled Louis into an adjacent room. The room without windows, instead there was a coffin in the middle. It was tattered, the wood scratched and dull. A far cry from what Louis remembered, or the decadence he’d pictured Lestat to be living in.
Lestat stopped, held his arms around himself like he couldn’t bear to not be clutched for a second, and stared at the coffin. Louis had to close the door, used more strength than anticipated to battle the newly emboldened winds.
The slamming door made Lestat’s shoulders jump. He waded through thick silence to exclaim: “Forgive me, I would have cleaned up if I knew you were coming.”
“Really? Can’t imagine where you’d put all this stuff.” Louis smiled momentarily, seeing the flicker of the suave Lestat he remembers. Even in the darker room he looked worn, grime of his solitude visibly dragging him down.
“I don’t need much, ” Lestat said, quietly. “Call it minimalism.”
It didn’t hit with the flourish he’d intended, syllables trembled. But he stuck to it, kept his chin tilted high, clinging to the memory of exuding confidence instead of desperate exhaustion.
Louis scoffed. “I’m callin’ it place with a roof that’s about to give out.”
As if on cue to wind howled through the cracks in the walls, something large smacked on the roof. Again and again, as if knocking.
“Come on.” Louis said, stepped toward the coffin. He opened it and took a step inside, one foot in one foot out. “Lestat.”
Lestat just stared, his big blue chasmic eyes searching for something to grab onto. “You - ” he stumbled over the words, their crackling connection “you would share a coffin…with me?”
The roof screamed, the storm egged on the knocking shutters.
“Yes - just,” he huffed, held open the coffin lid with one hand while he held out the other. “Come here. If the roof blows off this place at least we’ll be covered by morning.”
Lestat nodded, eyes piercing Louis’ outstretched hand. He didn’t take it when he approached, too afraid of falling back into raw intimacy. Wrong, so terminally unlike him, it made Louis nauseous. His maker who’d carried him like a bride over the threshold of death, held him to his chest that first day, charred and sore, like he was a blessing.
As Lestat sat down in the open coffin his shoulders were stiff, chin high and taut as though the stains on Louis’ jacket were not from his tears. More pretending, for his own sake Louis reckons. It makes Lestat feel better to be pristine, untouchable, almost godly - it’s why his shadowed state was so alarming.
Louis took off his shoes, his jacket, then crawled in beside him, closed the top onto their supine bodies. It was snug, more than Louis was accustomed to these days. Seemed that Lestat felt the same, he kept his arms curled up to his chest, lay down on his back instead of their customary face-to-face.
“I’ve missed you,” Louis whispered, a truth he didn’t want to hold back anymore. And the most affection he could give now, those other three words were elusive to him, slipped through his fingers too fast. “Most days. Every day, especially on the ones when I’d rather not.”
Lestat melted into Louis arms instantaneously, as he knew he would. Lestat’s arms surrounded him, beckoned his legs open so he could rest his own between them, then dropped his head to Louis’ chest - to hear his heart. His own breathing was steady as Lestat’s got tearier, his exhales clinging to his throat longer and stickier by the second.
“Truly?” Lestat managed, already decimated by their proximity.
Louis could smell the blood dripping down his cheeks, his own vision beginning to blur in the dark. His tears erupted fast, floodgates open. Louis felt a hot spurt of comfort, everything hadn’t changed. Lestat’s emotions remained a whirlwind, impossible to cease before they’ve run their course.
He cupped Lestat’s face in his hand, tilted it towards his, placed a kiss on his forehead, his temple, and finally his cheek, where the blood stained his lips too. If he kissed Lestat's lips he wouldn’t stop.
“Yeah.” He licked his own instead, tasted delicious, coveted Lestat. “I really, really did.”
Louis closed his eyes, at long last, thought of Lestat’s face, pressed close. His hands clutching him fiercely, his body flush against his, making him hot when in reality they were devilishly cold. The pads of his fingers were rough, from the water, the tears, the humidity. Rain pattered onto the coffin. Hard. Fast. Unyielding.
They slept through it.
When Louis opened up the coffin that night the dark, clouded sky smacks him in the face. Through the clouds he followed a handful of winking stars, though they weren’t bright enough to illuminate the room. That was the tragedy of cities, the loss of a genuine night sky - it was also the beauty of them, the way humans made up for it with a metropolis glow.
There was a sizeable hole in the roof, spanning along a full half of the ceiling. And Lestat was curled in his arms, head on his chest, watching him watch the sky.
“Storm’s passed,” he murmured, his fingers trailing down Lestat’s arm, of their own accord.
“So it seems,” Lestat said, and Louis couldn’t place the twinge of vulnerability in the syllables. On his chest, Lestat began to trace tiny shapes, mesmerized, as if he was relearning what it felt like. “Will you stay?”
The implication rolled between them. Here in New Orleans? With Lestat?
He wanted to, and couldn’t. Louis thought of Dubai, the monochrome stoicism, artificial sunlight bulbs, books up high and out of reach. A reflection of how empty he’d let himself become, built up a wall inside to hide from sorrow. Daniel had poked holes in that wall, but Louis had to whittle it down to dust himself.
He couldn’t picture Lestat there. He wasn’t sure he wanted Lestat there. Lestat belonged in the centre of decadence, on a blush ruby chaise, cigarette in hand, not - not here.
“Will you? This is barely a shack anymore, you’ve at least got to get somewhere with a roof. Outside of this flood zone - definitely with a bathtub.”
“You take me for a fool mon cher.” The endearment sent a shock to Louis, Lestat froze in a way that would have seemed unnatural if he had bothered to start breathing. A gorgeous, silky, French endearment that Lestat made sound like he’d invented just for him.
He recovered from it quicker than Louis, still better at wearing masks. Even if the one he’d chosen was drenched, and cracked. “I mean to say - I - yes, certainly.”
Lestat didn’t let them dwell. He promptly sat up, got out of the coffin, water splashed onto his pants. It was up to his ankles, but he treaded through as if the floor was polished tile. Around the room there were piles of floating debris - from the roof, the road, the walls. It smelt like the river. All must, all fish. Wide and willing to swallow you in a single bite without flinching.
He thought of Claudia - he was constantly thinking of Claudia. I was just a roof shingle that flew off of your house, she said. She’d seen her fair share of storms, felt their anguish, revelled in the unfounded destruction they could bring. And perhaps that was what she’d identified with, all those years later. But she’d been wrong in asserting that she was just anything.
She was another piece that held them together. The pain of losing her, memories of the lightness they once had on Rue Royale. Louis could feel it, tasted how it lingered on Lestat. There was a string here too, holding him to Lestat, but also to Claudia, to New Orleans.
Louis stepped out of the coffin, his shoes gone and socked feet promptly soaked in flooded water. His shirt stuck to his skin, still damp from the night before and showing no signs of drying in the humid air. He walked to Lestat, who was fiddling with the power cord attached to a lone lamp, it’s lampshade was floating beside it, unrecognizably twisted.
“That’s not ‘gonna work, power’s gone.”
Lestat crouched down to pick up something from under the water, covered his pants in filthy rainwater, and stood back up holding his iPad. He tapped on the screen. “Siri, when will the electricity return?”
The iPad was thoroughly waterlogged, yet Lestat tapped at it three more times before looking back at Louis sadly. His bottom lip was folded over to a sticky pink pout. “I think she’s passed on.”
“Yeah.” Louis stifled a laugh. “Think so.”
Lestat dropped the iPad. It splashed into the water, sunk down to the floor. He stared down to it, as though following a bucket to the bottom of a deep well.
“You do not need to linger Louis, I can find new lodging on my own.”
“It’s not lingering. Didn’t you hear what I said? Before?”
“Oui,” he said, but his tone indicated that he didn’t, not really.
“I came to see you.”
Lestat’s head shot up, curious. “You've come, you've seen. What else is there?”
“‘Said I missed you.” Each word lead Louis closer to Lestat until he was directly in front of him, mere inches from his defensive face. His hand twitched at his side, itching for contact. “I still do. You’re right fuckin’ here and I still do.”
Lestat gasped, soft, a whisper among clouds. His eyes had gone glassy, they did that when he was bursting with emotion. Felt too much that it had to pour out of his eyes. It was nice, being able to shock him with tender things instead of brutal.
“Ain’t going to leave you here, like this - not this time - not when I can help out.” Louis asserted, and did take the initiative to reach forward and cup Lestat’s face in his palm, run his thumb over his dewy cheek. This wasn't his plan, did anything go according to plan with Lestat?
“Come with me. I’ve got a hotel room waiting, with a hot shower, and clothes, and blood. Human, you look like you could use it.”
“Do I?”
Wind sloshed through the room, hard, and didn’t sway them. Lestat stayed silent. Louis followed his eyes, too stuck on how near they were, on how he was leaning to him instinctually. Their noses brushed. Louis brought his other hand to Lestat’s face, held him better.
“Lestat,” he blurted. “I want you with me.”
“Louis -” his breath hitched, “my Louis, my yearning for you is everlasting.”
He's not his, not really, and he is. The blood in his veins are his, it's Lestat's. The breathe in his lungs is his, because of Lestat. His death, his torment is his, and it runs through Lestat to an extent - wretched, and hollow Lestat. He leaned in, drawn to crackling anticipation, and grinned.
Lestat was looking at his mouth like he’d created the night sky, made it so that he’d have somewhere to exist. It’s delicious, and arduous. Beautiful and wearying. So is he, Louis’ realized.
“Yeah?” Louis said, the question twinkled.
His kiss was a lunge. Louis held Lestat steady, despite the fact that he hadn’t moved an inch in minutes, and kissed him thoroughly. His tongue pushed down on Lestat’s lip, begging it to open for him. Once he did, Louis swiped his tongue throughout his lovely mouth, tasting a whisper of the sweetness he dreamed of behind all the grime and tears.
He didn’t mind the mildew, not when Lestat was grabbing at his shirt, arms around his back as though he was still too fucking far. Lestat’s fingers coiled into the hem, pulled Louis against him as their mouth’s took advantage of the fact that they didn’t need to breathe. Smacked, huffed, nipped - ravenous after an extensive hiatus.
Louis trailed one of his hands down to slip into Lestat’s barely functional robe, fingers closing around his thin hip in an assertion of need. The move put their bodies flush against each other. As they had been the night before, for the entire day, for all the days after that. I’m always on the other side, face pressed up against your longing. Lestat had whispered, through time, through inexplicable veils.
“You wrote me a letter,” Louis mumbled, nose pressed to Lestat’s cheek. “In Paris. No, when we were here. I read it after - after we - after I - ”
“Stop. I told you, let us not speak of trespasses against each other. Not now at least - ” Lestat was speaking into Louis neck, chapped lips skimming over his skin. Softer than fangs, sharper than a kiss. “So I did. You have my heart, had to remind you that you'd carried it across the ocean.”
Louis chuckled, wetly. “When I read it, I could feel you through the pages, in the ink you used, the seal on the damn envelope.”
“Tu m'as manqué,” Lestat whispered into his skin. “I wanted you to know always how I love you Louis, every fibre of my being longed for you then, longs for you now.” He kissed his neck. “Constantly.” Another kiss, longer, Louis felt it in his bones. “Unceasingly.”
Easy for Lestat to get caught up in a wave of yearning. He carried Louis into it with him, kept mumbling endearments while Louis held onto his golden locks, around his waist, careened into the trail of kisses on his neck.
“Will you let me show you?” Lestat asked. “How much I adore you?”
Louis nodded. Even though he’d decided to leave this place, to get Lestat clean and warm and fed - the devotion was too compelling. He was caught in another storm when it came to Lestat, one he didn’t want to board up his windows to keep out anymore.
In what seemed like a flash Lestat had pressed Louis back against a wall that hadn’t crumbled entirely. The water at their ankles sloshed, sent splashes up to Louis’ knees. Lestat’s hands went for his belt, deft musician’s hands unbuckling it with ease as he licked up his neck, swirled his tongue around his earlobe.
As he bit down with blunt teeth Louis whined, high and desperate. Lestat got his pants off and around his ankles, soaked them in the flood. He dragged Lestat up kiss him again, taste that sweet, coveted mouth.
Lestat smiled against his lips, his own hand slipping underneath Louis’ waistband and around his cock. His hips jumped at the sensation, to have those big, skilled hands on him again was enough to compel him to song. Louis came close, mouth opened to release a chasmal groan, he kneaded underneath Lestat’s shirt, pawed glistening skin between his fingertips.
Before Louis could throw off the stupid, horrible, wrecked, clothes from Lestat’s back - Lestat dropped to his knees. As if he were the blade of a guillotine. Brutal and fast. The water pooled around to his thighs now, but he was looking at Louis like he was salvation enough to keep him dry.
“Let’s get these off, shall we.” Lestat asserted, more confidently than he had anything since Louis arrived. His lips mouthed at the tented fabric between Louis’ legs, tongue pressing down against his erection a fluttering touch like butterfly wings, wicked, despicable at a time like this.
He was slow as he rolled down the rest of Louis' sticky clothing. Still kneeling at his feet, Lestat folded his pants, his belt, his socks, his briefs in a perfect pile. Then, like they were precious stones he placed them down onto the flooded ground. The sight made Louis’ hips jumped, it would have been tedious had the act not been spilling over with so much fucking devotion.
Lestat licked his lip, slowly. “Beautiful…Saint Louis.”
Louis canted his hips forward, swallowed the wail on the tip of his tongue. "'Got you kneeling at my alter, don't I?"
Lestat nodded, leaned in to run his lips up his thighs, litter kisses onto his hips while his hands reached around to squeeze his ass. Louis’ eyes rolled back in his head, he combed his hand through Lestat’s hair, stiff at the root from grease. His bright, blue, rapturing eyes hold Louis still this time. As though he’s the possessed one.
“Very siren of my heart, if I’d known how you were hurting, I’d have - ” Lestat inhaled, eyes all glitter. “I am forgetting myself. I will show you, make my offering.”
Lestat could go on forever with his assertions, Louis is sure. Instead he looked up as though admiring a painting and wrapped his soft mouth around the tip of his cock. Still, those bright hunter’s eyes remain on Louis, as he took in more and more until his nose nuzzled into dark pubic hair and Louis felt himself hit the back of his throat.
“Ah - Lestat.” Louis moaned, struggling to keep his eyes open.
It’s a worthwhile endeavour, Lestat’s eyes flood with all the love, and worship he would have spelled out. But Louis has always thought himself a man of action, and he appreciates Lestat’s willingness to understand his point-of-view tonight.
His eyes were dark, with need, with want - leaking new tears down his pretty cheeks. Wicked lips slick with spit, head bobbing around Louis’ cock - up and down, in and out - as if he’s been starving for it. Maybe they both have. Louis felt his eyelids flutter, threaten to close as Lestat squeezed his ass to arrange his hips in better proximity to his wanting mouth. He took him deeper down his throat, groaning to send delectable vibrations through skin.
“Lestat,” he whined again, in encouragement, without thought to form a proper sentence. That was what Lestat did to him, exploded his whole body, his whole life, his entire world.
Whether that was a good or bad thing wasn’t something Louis was in the position to ascertain. Not when each breath he attempted was coming out as a drawling mewl, his hips bucked upwards, and his head heavily weighing on the wall. It was crumbling around him as he moved, as Lestat pressed him back - a fine casualty.
Louis mind blanked as he came. Hot spurts down Lestat’s greedy throat, that he swallowed while still gazing up at Louis like it was ambrosia. For a flicker he could believe it, that he was holy to Lestat to the point of endless worship. And it was on that note that Lestat rose back up to his feet to kiss his mouth again. He tasted of him, of that devotion he spoke of. Louis opened his mouth, let Lestat do what he wanted with his tongue. He’d earned it he’d -
“Take off your clothes.” Louis mumbled. Into his mouth, a command that whirred into his tonsils and made Lestat gasp.
He gasped once more when Louis, impatient vampire he was, peeled his dressing gown off his slim shoulders. Louis didn’t take a quarter of the care Lestat did, he threw the robe out of sight and Lestat followed suit with each and every other piece of fabric keeping Louis from the flesh he pined for.
His devotion was demonstrated differently. With every kiss of his mouth on Lestat’s skin, each bite of teeth, lick of his blood. Naked Lestat was a wondrous thing, soft plains of pink leading to a sharp waist that still made Louis’ mouth water.
Louis had to touch. He waded through the filth, pulled Lestat back in by his hips, kneaded them, his thighs, his ass. Placed open-mouthed growls disguised as kisses on his face, throat, then finally lips. Lestat moaned, sobbed, bowed into the sensations, then lifted one of his legs to curl up around Louis’ hips, grinding their cocks together.
Lovely thing, vampire stamina. Louis was already hard, stiff as Lestat, who’d been that way before he’d gotten on his knees. He could feel precome drip between them, their pleasure tangled together. It hardly mattered whose it was, only that it be attended to. Lestat was pressing his hips into Louis’. Clever fingers rolled up the hem of Louis’ shirt next, forced their mouths apart when he peeled it off, stiff like dried paint, over his head.
Lestat leaned back in, forehead on his, eyes on his lips like they were truly scrumptious. “I need to be inside you cheri. May I?”
Fuck. Louis nodded, enthusiastically and rocked his hips to him. “Yeah, yeah - please.”
Lestat smiled, his thumb trailed over Louis’ bottom lip for a split second before he got the message to open up. Two fingers slid into his mouth, and Louis sucked, kept his eyes on Lestat’s - saw bursts of love and light - slicked up his fingers.
“Spread your legs for me, mon amour, ma precious mort.”
Louis did, sent water onto his shins as his legs slid apart. Lestat was right there, debilitatingly near, arm hooked under one of his knees - kept him upright and spread like a feast. His hand popped out of his mouth, and within seconds was between his legs. Louis moaned as the first finger breached his entrance, moved slow and steady. His head was heavy again, he felt Lestat’s other hand move to the back of his neck, holding him instead.
Lestat was an anchor pulling Louis down to the bottom of the sea. A heavy weight on his body, mind, and heart - one that he cannot bear to leave buried on the seabed forever. And so, he’s dived down deep to grab, to carry him back up with him. Maybe he’s been dragged down a bit on the way, but it’s Lestat, he could never fully let go.
Another finger inside. Then another. Louis wanted to kiss Lestat again - he did by tugging on his hair to bring his face back. While Lestat stretched him open Louis rocked his hips into the sensation, moaned high from the depth of his throat, kissed and kissed and kissed years of want into his wet mouth.
“You should fuck me already,” Louis whimpered, “I want you to, I’ve been wanting you to for so long it hurts. Physically fucking aches.” He can do things Lestat’s way too, use his words to wrap around him, to pull him close, close, close.
Lestat pressed his forehead into Louis'. “But you make agony sound so sweet.”
It was all talk. He spoke as though he wasn’t the picture of alluring anguish, his cheeks reddened, stained a faint copper from crying. The corner of Lestat’s mouth quirked almost to a smile as he put his foot down into the flood, then grabbed under Louis’ thighs to wrap his legs around his waist. There wasn't any time, despite their infinite time - the bond between them had been starving for too long, a wild, untamed thing left to decompose in the dark. He could see the ferocious fervour in Lestat's face, felt his arms shaking, overwhelmed, starving around his legs as though he wanted to devour him whole. Louis had half a mind to let him, it'd been too long, he forgot what it could feel like to really have Lestat.
He lifted Louis, squeezing onto his thighs as he placed them around his devilish waist. Louis had his ankles crossed behind Lestat’s hips, dug claws into his shoulders, pinpricks of blood oozed onto Louis' fingertips. He left stamps of his fingerprints pressed onto Lestat's pale skin, spread the blood to painted him pretty like a work of art. Lestat teased his entrance with the tip of his sturdy cock, dipped inside before pulling back again to give him the slightest inch more. Louis whimpered, done with waiting, had spent too many nights yearning for just this that he dug his heels into Lestat's back and urged that heavy cock into him. At long last, he was full of Lestat, felt bony hips slot perfectly to his - that empty pit in his heart suddenly, deliciously, brimful enough to pop.
They moaned in unison, pleasure on top of pleasure dancing in the swamped room. Lestat pumped his hips, slowly, languidly, and Louis could not fathom how it felt like all the stars aligned for a split second. He cradled Lestat’s head, buried in his neck, tilted his mouth into it as he licked at the skin, swallowed his sweat. The sharp tips of his fangs poked out, obvious in his desire to taste.
“Go on.” Louis tilted his neck to Lestat’s fangs. “Told you, you look hungry.”
Lestat slurred intelligible French that Louis’ mind was too far gone to comprehend. Then, fangs pierced through skin.
Louis could not keep his eyes open any longer, they fell shut as Lestat slurped at his blood, as he sunk his cock into him deeper, and deeper with each thrust. He squeezed Lestat’s biceps, pulled on his hair in utmost encouragement, whined in staccato, volume loud enough to make the soaked wallpaper curl to cover its ears. Let it peel off. All because he was so good and he’d deprived himself of him for too long.
He was home. He’d arrived bright, and nostalgic. Got himself covered in memories, in dirt, in rain, in Lestat.
He couldn’t last like this.
After they were both sated and slick with sweat on top of the rest, Lestat’s head dropped to Louis’ shoulder, arms circling him.
“I think I’d enjoy that bathing you mentioned now, very much.”
“Sure.” Louis smiled as he brushed fallen drywall off his shoulder. “I bet you would.”