"No," is a sob of a response, even as he gives over to the pressure of Lestat's hands. Says it again, even as he does turn, his head before the rest of his body follows.

"No."

No near to the same tenor as I hate you.

These aren't untrue things. They are only incomplete. Louis has no space for the rest.

Claudia is dead.

The blood has streaked down his chin, his throat. Soaked through his tunic. Lestat is touching him, and Louis wanted that. Louis wanted to be touched by him, has always wanted to be touched by him. Sat on that stage and heard Lestat lie, heard him render their lives in malicious tones to a gleeful mortal audience, and still—

His heart leaps, erratic. Wanting. Even in the midst of all-consuming grief, a corpse at their feet and their daughter dead, Louis still wants him.