It is easy, conforming his body to Louis', to make space for them both. They fit together perfectly, like they were made for each other. These are the kinds of things Lestat is still capable of thinking, even now, as he winds an arm around the other arm, lets out a long stream of breath at the innate comfort it gives him to do so.

And he will wait until Louis feels relaxed against him before he gives into the urge to enter that sleep state, knowing he will eventually have little choice in doing so anyway.

His hand goes up, cradling Louis' face, and he lifts his chin so that he can press a kiss to his brow as they are bathed in reparative shadow. "Every word," innately refers to the ones that were his own.