[ Lestat is happy with just the knowledge that Louis had been admiring him — it makes sense, after all, that Louis would get distracted with thoughts of such things given that this is the first time they've been in this way together, and Louis is never capable of just considering something simply, he always has to give it, what Lestat would consider, a ridiculous amount of thought. He tilts his head into each brush of his fingers, closing his eyes with a pleased little hum at the difference in heat between them now, Louis' hands ever so slightly warmed by the temperature of the water.

He blinks his eyes open when Louis continues to speak, therefore, surprised to hear him so... well, so honest. It's a difficult subject, and if Louis had asked him this a month or so ago, Lestat's answer might not have been the same as it would be now… but something about being pressed up with him like this, having gone through what they have, knowing without a doubt that Louis is wondering out of consideration and care rather than any kind of morbid fascination or disappointment over what can no longer be his body, makes him feel safe enough to answer earnestly; to return Louis' truth with some of his own. ]

I notice it too much, if I linger with my reflection. [ His voice is quiet, his eyes cast down, watching the progress of his own fingers across Louis' chest, following the lines of his muscle beneath his skin, the dip of his clavicle, skirting the edge of the wound. ] I see every place I've been worn away and made smooth. I can't help but see it.

[ He starts to rub at the blood drying there, letting the water do most of the work but gently helping it along with a small smile on his lips despite their conversation topic. ]

It makes me feel strange. Perhaps I haven't thought about how it makes me feel enough to have an answer for certain, or perhaps my opinion on it is changing under your hands. I'm not sure.