A scoff, not a laugh. Close enough, enough to warm him. A slant of unlikely sunshine.

Lestat dips his head in, accepting the offered method. Eyes hooding as he tips the end of his cigarette to the flame, the other caught between his lips. His eyelashes get to be their usual blonde today, every trace of clinging ink thoroughly cried away.

"You know my life's work is making you smile," he says, because the thought comes to him, and the weight of its truth ushers it out of his mouth. "It feels so meaningless when I cannot."