Lestat gives up his wrists easily, holding himself still under the passing sweep of Louis' thumb, the gentle tickle of fabric drawn tighter to button. Sense memories of similar gestures in the past. Undoing shirt buttons. Applying gifted cufflinks.

Home, in little golden glimpses. How near it seems, how far away. He wanders a glance back up at this question.

"Yes," he says, unsure as to what metric they're measuring by, but all of them are at the very least okay. The clothes, probably. A glance aside locates a mirror on the wall, and he turns to it while leaving his other wrist in Louis' care. "Your valet has good taste."

He has not had much cause to preen in front of a mirror, lately. The only one in his cottage is in the door of its wardrobe, which is spotted, dusty, obscuring, and rarely entertained. Here, he pushes his hair behind an ear, angles his head, considering. Not so bad.