[ Lestat's smile doesn't necessarily fall as much as it goes softer, blurred, less defined as his thoughts go much the same way and become slightly out of focus. Like Louis, he is taken back to that uncertain time when he had scribbled notes on sheet music and strung lyrics together from the pit of his soul, everything he'd longed to say, everything he wanted to put into place, every taunt and every feeling so much easier to put into words when he didn't have to look anyone in the eyes to form them.

He's always found it hard to be vulnerable, and naturally he thinks of their recent argument, the floods of tears, the precise feeling of his heart splintering... It hasn't got easier. Yet he still somehow wants to do it. Like a madman falling for the one holding the whip, perhaps it's masochism, or perhaps he's simply sick of hiding the truth from Louis. ]

Yes. I wrote plenty. Love songs lend themselves so well to that type of music, I'd say better than any other.

[ He slides his fingers through the gaps between Louis', letting their hands drop as he foregoes the guise of playing an imaginary guitar and instead simply wraps his arms around him. ]

.. The fourth song on my album, I wrote while thinking of you. [ He tucks his head in Louis' shoulder a little, voice against his skin. He isn't shy, but there's a certain tension to his frame as he confesses this great secret. ] It was the only one I'd give them. I had more from that time, but I never intended for anyone to hear those.