Louis touches his arm, and Lestat's hand wanders up, fingertips brushing against the other man's elbow, not quite a grip. Studying him, from where he'd stood at the door, and here, right in front of him. It could be a mistake to imagine that the boundaries between them have been properly shattered along with Antoinette's front door (and bed frame), but there is an instinct that knows better than to start making too many demands.

An invitation. Lestat cocks his head, because a man cannot simply do as he's told without making a little show of the alternative, but then the corner of his mouth turns up.

He steps around him, opening the lid of the handsome casket that is Louis' resting place. The black polished wood and the deep green interior. (Where Claudia would have placed him, where Louis would have rested for so long, days and nights, before managing to make it out.) Home. Lestat ducks down to crawl inside amongst the plush velvet, shifting over to make space.

Then, reaches to receive Louis coming in after. Silent, for a rare moment in time.