Ayup. He shrugs at Lestat, hands spread. The older vampire is only familiar with him through his rejuvenated state, his celebration of his unlife— never met the dying, cranky man suffering from chronic pain who sat in Louis' penthouse. No friends, no reason to go out. Even before Parkinson's, even before the pandemic; illness and quarantine did not make him unpleasant, or distrustful, or disinclined to go bar crawling without a specific mission in mind. Bridge destruction has been a lifelong hobby.

It's nice to be here. It's nice to have fucking superpowers, and steady hands, and a spiraling career he's set on fire. Fun, in fact.

"Pleasant company," he says. "For a couple of old guys leaving the house for the first time in a while."

They are friends, see.