So much time spent wanting to die. Lestat had found Louis that way, saying the words aloud in a confessional as if he could be absolved for the way he craved his own death.

At his lowest, his nearest to death, there had been Lestat. One way or another, he had been there to tug Louis back.

This vendetta isn't a prayer for death. Louis can promise that without any hesitation or omissions. His fingers slip into Lestat's hair, thumb at his temple.

"I'm not going nowhere," Louis promises. "I'm staying. They can't take me anywhere I don't want to go."

Inevitably, a trap door through which Louis might step again if he feels he must. But tonight, the soft sweep of fingers through Lestat's hair, his heartbeat steady beneath his palm.

"And I don't wanna leave," Louis tells him. "I mean to stay."