Armand is desirable, in possession of the sort of beauty that has inspired endless works of art, made creators ravenous with the desire to render his countenance in one medium or another. Even Lestat, with all that he knows of the vampire before him, is not so prideful and stubborn as to deny that. How long has it been, since it was just the two of them alone like this, neither of their fledglings even remotely near? They'd initially agreed to a détente purely for Louis' sake, but Lestat has had greater matters on his mind as of late, things that weigh more important than any lingering grudge he might hold.

Armand's voice is a soft and inviting purr in his head, quiet but still loud enough to be well-perceived over the constant thumping of the club's bass-heavy music. Lestat's gaze doesn't waver.

So you admit my capacity for provocation exists, he finally replies, with an unserious note of smugness, one corner of his mouth quirking upward before Armand lightly caresses over its shape. How might it have been, between them, if he'd never left Paris? He wonders, every so often.

But this moment isn't for dwelling on the past, not when he can act in favor of pursing his lips against each of Armand's fingertips in turn, sneaking in subtle flicks of his tongue. Mon étrange. Kiss me.