A hand turns out from the fold of his arms, hinting at something—something in the ribcage, reaching out. Beyond biology.

He has read Mr. Molloy's book quite a few times, remembers the careful framing of Armand's contributions, the observations, the disclaimers. Different treatment, the telling of Louis' telling of Lestat's telling of his own transformation. Odd, mediated layers. Like looking at his own memories through thick, distorted glass. How strange it had been to see in print. Among other things.

"After my changing," Lestat says, skipping to the end, because that is where the point lies, "he made his intentions clear to me. He would end his life. He would go into the fire. He wanted me to scatter the ashes to make sure it took."

A growl of engine, and he looks over. A semi-truck hurtling by beneath the lights of the road, a great behemoth of a thing. Some sights of this era still catch him, but he will not be distracted.

"I begged him not to do it. I felt I loved him then, was loved by him, despite all of it. Everything he had done. I felt I saw what he was, and I wanted to hold onto it. And then he left. Ha," mild, because he can feel something like old grief rise up, sting at his eyes, and that is ridiculous, dismissing it by shaking out his hair. "It's fucked. But yes. I wanted it. And Armand offered it."

And for a while, at least, he took it. Eventually. "Do you want him to get bored, fuck off?"