Imagine talking about things. The freedom of that.

It has weighed on them, throughout these spare several hours they've shared together, the things still unsaid. A deliberate decision, but perhaps a habit. Lestat still remembers what it felt like, physically, to speak of her, like a great pressure in his chest that had only just begun to loosen. He has spoken her name to no one. He imagines—

Well, he doesn't wish to imagine, he wishes to be told, but perhaps again, that Louis has the same problem, had it, despite having had a companion all this time. Lestat believes him when he says he is okay now, or will be.

So, an explicit invitation. He unfolds an arm to brush his knuckles down Louis' shoulder as he says, "Tell me."