His own attempt to distract himself falters when he feels that slight pressure of Louis leaning against his hand, finding himself at the centre of Louis' attention, aware that Louis likely still tastes his own blood at the back of his tongue—

And still a moment of gazing when Louis turns his head and Lestat can appreciate the curve of neck and shoulder, tendon and muscle, before he pulls back from this and indulges in a sigh. Hands slipping back from Louis, collecting up his jacket from behind him to slip back over his shoulders, unmindful of remaining smears of blood on his arm. Hard to be fussed about such things, as a vampire.

"Then you can text me," he says, as if they are having a normal conversation, "when you would like some company."

He's going to get an A+ in friendship.