Lestat lets go of Louis' arm once they reach the bench, and they sit. A flood of memory, immediately, their favourite place in the park, a clear view of St. Louis Cathedral, a place that had felt like it was all theirs. A place to say anything at all to one another. A place Louis had once gone to die, nearly.

A different bench, a different park. Lestat scopes out the view, the looming city lights, the lush trees, this green little heartland of Manhattan. Yes, he will play here. He will play in Jackson Square too, why not. Mark his territories.

Hooks a leg over a knee, an elbow against the back of the bench. "I didn't bring anything for you," he says. Admission. "But I'm working on it."