A flex of a smile, even if the memory itself is now complicated. All good memories of the past seventy-seven years are now, cast in uncertainty or mired in the magnitude of the foundational lie from which seventy-seven years of companionship had risen.

Still, a memory: tickets tucked into the breast pocket of Louis' coat, joining a crowd, leaning forward at the overture in spite of himself. The twitch of smile on Armand's face, though Louis isn't certain now if it had been approval of some stage direction or something else, some private amusement.

Lestat says Pyrotechnics and Louis' smile widens slightly, gives a shake of his head. Yes, morbid. Doubtful that Lestat will be dissuaded from the concept if it truly appeals, so—

"Heaven on Their Minds," Louis supplies, a quiet side contribution to a conversation that feels to be winding to a specific topic.

Daniel, interviewing Lestat. Louis has not thought about it at length, but has the sense he should remove himself from any earnest discussions of the prospect. Lestat deserves his odyssey without the weight of Louis in the room, interfere even in that small way.

(They will scale the sides of this building, force their way inside, and paint the walls with his blood, Armand had said. Louis had not contradicted him.

Here and now, the walls of the Met are infinitely scale-able, architecture lending itself to the ambitious. ]