Louis might have done all this himself, had Lestat not caught up to him. Touched him. Held him while they tried to unravel the newness of the state Louis has plunged them into.

But Lestat begins divesting him of blood-soaked shirt, and Louis quietly permits him. Yes, they want the same things. Yes, they will have to place their weight upon the tenuous, much-fractured trust between them.

Lestat's fingers are working carefully at his cuff. Louis makes a soft sound, finding himself suddenly impatient. Unable to bear the smell of her blood.

"Just—"

A break. Louis' fingers hooking at the collar, tugging. Buttons scatter. The fabric comes loose, and Louis begins to twist out of the drying fabric.