Kissing Lestat is like kissing memories of everyone else Lestat has ever kissed, the molding of a mouth to his own more skilled in pleasing others, or perhaps nobody except himself. He tastes Lestat doubled over, blood and breath, as well as the faint notes of the mortal Lestat feasted on previously, the raw burn of nicotine, all the dirty habits they've never been able to shed down the years. He wonders, in the back of his mind, if he will be able to taste Louis, if he kisses him enough.

Parted again from each other, Armand allows his chin to be lifted by that gentle thumb, uncallused, a sophisticate's soft skin. His gaze lingers on Lestat's mouth for a moment, before lifting to his eyes.

"Only habit," he replies, though his own hands are stealing out from him, betraying, slipping up the lines of Lestat's shirt to find a button to slip, a hem to slide under. "Though perhaps that's enough."