Close, closer. Easy enough for Armand to lean in and kiss Louis, light, chaste at first, though it doesn't stay that way. Louis tastes like the night air, that mouth made for kissing and loving and arguing the righteous cause, for appreciating art and beautiful bodies. Tightened by sorrow and anger instead. Armand grieves for him. For both of them. For all of them, the misbegotten vampire children of the world.

"We found each other," he says, into their mental connection. Kisses him, just two men kissing on the lawn outside a party. He winds his arms up around Louis' neck and flattens his body against him, hips to chest.

"In Paris. In San Francisco. We will find each other again, and again."