It is a lovely, cool night. The park is quiet, even with the noise of the city beyond them. Louis is so attuned to the link of their fingers, how Lestat permits him this minor touch, the shift and slip of his thumb across the back of his hand, knuckles, little bits of contact as they speak.

"It might," Louis agrees, as if he is any authority. Music had never been Louis' gift. "Will all your songs be about us?"

Egocentric, maybe, but Louis wouldn't begrudge him. Finds some sense in it. Louis has his book. Lestat will have his tour, his album.

He is entitled to it, to make something of their romance.