Quiet pleasure for Louis readjusting the way they sit together, letting him keep a hand, the resettling of the closeness of his arm around Lestat's shoulders, both of them leaning into the other. It feels a little like the world entire rearranging itself to become a more comfortable and amiable place, whole mountains moved to improve the view as Louis tells him he doesn't need to apologise again, again, again.

He has thought of so many ways to do so. Sometimes imagined what forgiveness would feel like. More often, imagined the sting of its absence.

Daniel may not scoff. If Louis had of rEaD tHe BoOk, him being a big book reader and all, he may find traces of nuance, of criticism. Of course, Lestat could not guide him this way. Call it ego, call it self-loathing, that he more or less only parses his own glaring mistakes.

He looks at him, a quiet study made of his features. He knows what it looks like when Louis is lying to him, knows better now when Lestat chose not to notice it. Here, a more careful regard, and then a flicker of feeling in him. Accepting it, quietly.

"'We ruined it together'," he says, meanwhile. "That might make a good lyric."