Lestat catches him. Lestat hauls him further away from the coffin, and wraps a completely unyielding arm around him, pinning them together.

This, too, lacks romance.

(Lacks romance? Holding him closely while Louis is consumed by his rage, his own wounded heart leaping in his chest to match it.)

"You cannot," is a furious near-whisper in Louis' ear. "You mistake your hunger for strength, Louis. Your anger for efficacy." The hold he has on him can only emphasise this fact, should Louis try to struggle. It won't work. "They will tear you to shreds and I will not allow it, do you hear me?"

There is no weeping to herald the flooding red in his eyes, just an upswell of deep feeling, impossible to name as one thing.

Somewhere, a theatre full of vampires and drunkards. Now is not the moment.