[ That quiet laugh reminds Lestat so much of the often times he'll say something to make Louis incredulous in the handful of minutes they have between when the dawn starts to have an effect on him and when the death sleep finally takes him. Quietly, he adores those moments; it's Louis at his most unguarded, when he says romantic things without getting flustered, when he's honest and without inhibition. Lestat covets it greedily... but this, oh, he could easily live a thousand mortal lifetimes and be completely content to never see Louis so broken and exhausted again.

The shudder that goes through him makes Lestat hold him tighter. ]

It's chilly. The storm must have brought on a cold front.

[ He can't really tell if it's any colder than usual, but he says it anyway because a small white lie is so much easier to admit than the possible truth.

In a matter of moments Lestat is at the foot of the stairs to their apartment, then at their door, then angling his body inside. The lights are still on, the window is still open, it looks like they merely stepped out for a moment. He exhales, slowly, feeling the ridiculous relief of being home butt up alongside the anxiety over Louis' current state. ]

We should get you cleaned up, my heart. Do you think you could stand it? It might warm you up.