( Louis moves his hand just enough to wipe at Lestat's tears, though with as much of a bloody mess as they both are, it only manages to make things worse. His expression pinches into a frown not of discontent or even pain, but of intense focus, as if doing as Lestat asks is taking the full measure of his concentration. )

Keep talking, then. Keep me awake.

( He tries to smile a little — you're good at talking, he wants to tease, to be the one to lighten the mood for once, because the sight of Lestat's tears makes him feel almost panicked with the desire to fix whatever's caused them. But another shudder of pain takes him, and he tenses, gasping quietly. It's smaller this time, less agonizing, but still, he can tell the wound was deep.

His eyes fix on Lestat again when they flutter open. He takes a breath, sweat standing out on his temples, and tries. )

It's working. I know it. It's strange, I don't know how to...

( Breathing to talk is so unpleasant, some necessary muscle that he was unaware of obviously badly damaged. )

It feels almost warm, almost like tingling, but neither of those is quite... hmn. It feels good. Beneath the pain. It feels like you.

( His hand flexes in Lestat's grasp, and he fights off another sudden wave of blackness trying to drag him under. )

I wonder whether... because it's your blood, because you made me...

( He lets the thought complete itself. There's something else that's important about Lestat's blood, he thinks blurrily, but he can't seem to remember it now. )