The audacity of it may become clearer to Louis in the years to come. Later, when he has some distance, when he has more understanding of the world he's treading within.

In this moment, it is only repayment in kind. It is only a necessity. It must be done. He cannot survive any other way.

"Okay."

As if it is a simple thing Louis has set out to do. The specifics of it, the extent to which they will involve Lestat, are unclear even to Louis. It is only the desire, and the permission to see it through, that matters in this moment.

Lestat's fingers upon his face, the way the touch of his lips lingers, distracts—

It appeals to the same part of him, whatever breathless, inexorable part of him that hadn't been able to do anything but rejoice at Lestat's coming. At the sound of his footsteps upon the metal grating. Fear and hatred and love, always love. Always these three things in a terrible potent combination.

There is a teetering unsteadiness still in Louis' face. It's there when he looks back at Lestat, being held upright perhaps only by Lestat's hands about his face and neck. Louis' fingers have found their way to a loose, absent grasp on Lestat's tunic, flex there as Louis finds his way to, "We have to go."

And it is nonspecific enough that Lestat would be forgiven, if he assumed Louis means back. Back the way they came. There is only unsteady movement to signal his intention, a pull towards momentum before the churn of emotion can drag him under.