[ Lestat's eyes search Louis' for the second or two that lingers before he speaks, trying to discern where this sudden look of worry has come from in such a tender moment, and when it's finally revealed, Lestat feels a strange twinge ripple through his heart.

He can recognise it easily enough as his natural reluctance to be weak in front of anyone, the same reluctance that had him brushing Louis off with a hand so many times in their past, too terrified to show him even an inch of vulnerability for the fear that it might crack and splinter and become something he had no hope of ever repairing or coming back from. Now, though, in this place where their relationship has blossomed into something Lestat had never even dared to imagine was possible for them, Lestat pushes through the initial fear, swallowing his inhibitions just enough to meet Louis' gaze firmly enough that it steels his resolve.

Louis has only ever wanted to know him, after all, and isn't this particular pain as much of a part of him now as Louis is? ]

Yes. A trick of this place or of my mind, I don't know. Sometimes it's just the patter of her slippers on the paving stones, sometimes it's the sound of her laugh. Sometimes I see her curls, as I said, disappearing around a corner or whipping past me as I walk, just out of my vision and out of my reach.

[ A small pause, and though Louis is holding him so tight already, Lestat returns the hold even tighter, as if he needs it to get him through his next confession. ]

I dream of her, too. I talk to her sometimes, when I'm out alone or, before you wake in the evening.

[ His brow twitches, frustration or something else flickering in his expression. ]

I know it's foolish.