Kissing Lestat is good. It is always good, near to an intoxicant. There will always be some part of him that yields the way he once had, downstairs, Lily asleep on the sofa and Lestat's hands straining in his grip. Lestat kisses him, and Louis softens into it, hand at his cheek, encouraging.

The break, the hitched breath, comes as Lestat's weight settles. The coffin is not closed. For a moment, only a moment, Louis' memories tilt away from him. (Lestat's eyes cold with rage, his fingers digging in hard, the cold slice of wind and the useless, flailing kick of his legs.) His fingers tighten at Lestat's shoulders; no passion, just a flex of instinct, the jerk of movement belonging to a falling man.

It passes.

Louis tips his head breathlessly up to him, insistent, pushing past the hiccup of memory. Nips his lower lip, sinks fingers into his hair. They are alright. They are going to be alright.