Some past iteration of himself is groaning, fussing, scoffing at the hesitation he feels, the hesitation he indulges in. Louis inviting him out to hunt would have made his decade, eighty years back.

Thrills him now, too, but it all feels so momentous. Louis being here at all, Louis giving him care and forgiveness. What if they can't withstand it? What if something breaks?

But Lestat doesn't spend too long wringing his hands about it. It all feels a little beyond his control, anyway. Louis will stay as long as Louis wishes to stay. Lestat will hunt again, because he is a hunter and he would no sooner eat a rat in Louis' presence as he would roll around in the mud to undo all of last night's hard work. They will see what kind of mood catches them.

It is agreed. Lestat puts his boots back on, declines needing a coat (it is almost never that cold), and they leave the hotel. If the man working the desk or the man working the door notices Lestat's little Cinderella transformation, they know better than to emote it.

Outside, the sky is clear. The streets aren't flooded. There is a certain quality to the noise of the city that feels a little restless and nervous, to Lestat's ear, but there is the sound of traffic, of bars with the windows open, of music and laughter, all over the top of generators, sirens, patches of silence. Like the whole town is hungover, but shaking it off. The scent of storm clings to the brick.

They walk to Jackson Square. Lestat thinks he could find it blindfolded.