( Louis' fingers tense, holding tightly to Lestat's as much as the delicate positioning of their fingers will allow, and pulls them down near their collarbones to give himself room to kiss Lestat on the lips. It's nearly chaste, lips parted only slightly, without the barest hint of fangs or even ordinary teeth to spoil the perfect gentlemanly illusion, though of course Lestat knows well indeed what passions Louis keeps banked behind that polite composure.

He pulls away, and then it's his turn to bring Lestat's fingers to his lips and return the kisses, treating each knuckle in turn as if it's worthy of individual affection. He doesn't want to spoil this perfect moment; he means what he'd said about not getting lost in the past. But it wasn't all painful, was it? And no one else knows what it was like in those days but Lestat, no one else knows that they were happy sometimes. Indeed, until he'd found Lestat again after a century apart, those nights in New Orleans had been some of his only happy memories. )

I was watching you from the shadows... I heard you talking to her.

( His heartbeat quickens, a current of anxiety running through him, and he holds tighter to Lestat. It's difficult to speak of her; they've addressed her absence only obliquely, a pain that they have both avoided, likely for each other's sake as much as their own. But it feels safe to say it now. )

I always find myself wondering what she would think of things, just as I did with you when you were gone.