Of course Armand knows that Lestat is here, roaming this place like some eerie specter of then vampire Louis both loves and hates. There’s some comfort in it - that Armand knows, that Louis doesn’t have to bring the name up on a silver platter and watch the delicate tower of their relationship lose one more pebble or stone.

Louis squeezes the hands that take his own, holding on just as desperately, like the other is a buoy in the torrential storm of their lives.

“No, he can’t. He’ll kill me, or try to. He didn’t know that time had passed - couldn’t tell him. I don’t know how to be that man anymore.”

The Louisiana smooth talker, the confident businessman, the angry, fiery human hell bent on righting the arbitrary laws passed by crueler men.

One step brings him closer to Armand, enough that their foreheads can touch and in that contact he shares the deep pit of unease he feels. There’s hope, sure, that Lestat as he knew him is back, that he doesn’t know. But there’s hope, too, that Louis hasn’t lost control of himself again and Armand’s affirmation seems to ease a tiny bit of the tension in his brow.

“I didn’t know if he was real. If it was in my head again and this place was just running me around.”

There it is - the hint of an old world warmth, a tongue awoken after decades of rest.