Familiar, still, the closeness of this space. He has slept in coffins alone about ten times more than he has shared them, and yet, it feels a little like a homecoming. Shifting onto his side to make room, slotting together neatly. Shifting a leg to accommodate another.

Friendship or otherwise, there's no use in trying to fold in on themselves for the sake of propriety. Lestat lays an arm around Louis' side, breath catching at that initial press of contact. Opts against complaint that Louis is still in his day clothes. Louis is in a coffin, his coffin, and so there is nothing to complain about.

Then—a little laugh. "Wait," before the lid can close. Lifts a hand, presses his fingertip to a spot on Louis' cheek. Shows the stray sparkle of glitter that comes away from it. "Désolée. It clings."