Comfortable and familiar positioning in the kind of space that a human would likely shudder to imagine existing in for any length of time. An arm around there, tucked in just so, and now there is no escape from each other. Lestat's eyes close as Louis touches that bruising.

As you should, Lestat had said. Hate is such a powerful force. Hate is so much better than the silence that had preceded it. Bruises are an improvement on the soft blank nothingness of disdain. He can accept them as conduits to love-making, to love. The only way Louis could allow himself to give into it.

"You still smell like the river," he murmurs, a hand sliding up Louis' bare side.