Emotion sticks in Louis' throat, disarmed by the combination of damp embrace and the expression Lestat wears. How underserving Louis feels of it, as much now as he had then.

Thank you, he'd said while the wind battered Lestat's little cottage. As rainwater dripped in through the ceiling. Insignificant words for the gift Lestat had given. Not just Louis' life, but the love in which he'd bestowed it.

Louis lays the cloth over Lestat's shoulder so he might touch his face. Wet fingers sketching along Lestat's cheek before Louis cups a palm there. Feels affection, overwhelming, alongside all other complicated, difficult emotion they feel for each other. Makes no attempt to break the embrace, looking into Lestat's eyes and feeling the way all things settle around them, the echoing of their heartbeats, their breath, perfectly in time.

"You saved me."

More than once.

"I'm glad it was you."

Is so deeply complicated. How many years, thinking Armand had saved him. How many years, thinking Lestat had damned both Louis and Claudia to the sunlight, washing his hands of their lives together.

How long Louis had loathed himself for loving him still, even after what had happened.