The one coffin, he supposes. Lestat leans to set down his empty cup. Being cared for, taken care of, somehow both pleasant as well as chafing. Call it vampiric instinct, stupid and useless. Louis, his fledgling, who he should be taking care of instead, who he has failed too many times previously for such an urge to be worthy.

So yes, itchy, for no good reason, but also warming. A scratchy blanket. That will do, as far as metaphors go. "And you will sleep where?"