The human comes in, which feels odd. Far removed from the days of invisible servants, who could go anywhere and see anything and it didn't matter. They'd guarded their own privacy in New Orleans. A maid on occasion and nothing more intimate than that. Still, Lestat doesn't hackle, just curls his knees in slightly, watches the proceedings.

Like Louis has let in a stray cat, which happens to be a lion. He finishes his cup while they talk, a languid and luxurious drinking down of thick blood, twisting to set it down once she leaves the room.

"Oh?" at this news. Tempting enough to draw Lestat out of bed, finally, one last glance before pushing himself across the mattress to go attend to the bag. Not because he is so excited for new clothes, but keen to see what Louis would choose for him.

Hums over these items, drawing them out one by one. Garments made for men but with the textures and softness that he would still associate with women's clothes, trousers that hang like skirts and shirts that drape like blouses. Pleasing, this confusion, or mingling, whatever it is. These resemble, too, the things he'd been wearing last night, even if he barely recalls obtaining them, choosing them.

"I do," he says, over a shoulder. "I like them."