Louis follows him down. Not into the coffin, but knelt alongside it, watching Lestat settle and feeling some uneven pulse of his heart. Longing, Louis knows. But something satisfied too, worries assuaged by the sight of Lestat safe and warm and ensconced in Louis' own coffin. He'll rest and wake steadier, and this knowledge is what prevents Louis from asking some question about playlists, about Lestat's opinions on this or that song, whether he's seen any given movie.

They had talked for hours, in the beginning. It had felt like this.

"Thanks," comes soft, Louis hanging just slightly over the edge of the coffin.

Lingers.

Eventually, murmurs, "Bonne nuit." French again, after so many years letting the language atrophy on his tongue.

Closes the lid. Lays a hand along the smooth surface, lingering still, before Louis lifts himself from the floor and into bed.

And this too is as it was. Louis sleeping later, longer. Never the first to wake between them. Whether or not Lestat lets himself out is his own business. The coffin opens from the inside.