For Lestat, kissing Armand is akin to kissing memory itself — but even his present remembrance pales in comparison to the lived experience, a reminder of what has been and what can never be again. So much links them, though, through their origins, tethers that ensure they will never be able to break free of one another completely.

"A poor excuse otherwise," he replies, teasing in a way that could border on cruel were it not for the smile that plays over his lips, his own attention descending to Armand's mouth and lingering in a manner as blatant as a physical caress would be.

Lestat cups Armand's face between his hands, keeping his head tilted back, and then steps in to cover that mouth with his own, slanting, feasting. He'll give Armand enough lead to start unbuttoning his shirt, to begin divesting him of his clothes; for now, he's directly motivated to see what sort of moans he can elicit from the ancient's throat as he purposefully nicks his own tongue with a fang, continues the exchange of blood through their kiss.