At this verbal confirmation, something in Lestat relaxes. His hands loosen, Louis extricating himself without needing to shake him loose, sinking back into the couch corner where he'd begun. There is every possibility, of course, that Louis vanishes now, disappears for a time measurable in years, but it would be acceptable if it meant he didn't seek out Armand, try to do what Lestat did not.

Would not? Could not? There had been no plan, only impulse, but he does remember towards the end feeling a shift in himself, one that longed for murder more than punishment. And he had nothing left for it.

He tips his head back, regards the ceiling. Breathes through painful twinges. Perhaps he should not have been so precious about refusing to put his fangs in Louis' skin, earlier, when it had been offered.