Looking back at him, hearing these words land, Louis' expression shutters. Goes briefly blank, driven away from the agony. A tinny ringing in his ears, a strangling pressure in his chest.

Louis wasn't there to see her. Claudia. He hadn't seen.

There is a void. For a terrible moment, something occupies it.

And when Louis fights past the knife-twisting agony of it, what crawls in afterwards is ugly, and bitter. If he pressed, would Lestat lose his temper? Louis sees that clearly too, what would come of it. How momentary the relief. How great the damage.

How cruel, to make Lestat into a bludgeon to harm himself with.

The silence has gone on too long, by the time Louis makes his way back to himself. Collects enough of his mind to dredge up a reply, and even then—

All he does is descend that last step, reach past Lestat to take hold of the lid.

"I'll get in when you do."

A reckless offer. (A conciliatory offer, an apology. One given the only way Louis is capable in this moment.)