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If Lestat were to be asked the one thing he regrets about Louis' conversion, he would confidently answer none of it.
None of it except… except maybe one particular detail.
Every time Louis looked at him, Lestat could not help but expect his eyes to be deep brown, barely distinguishable from his pupils, like that night on the terrace of the Fairplay Salon, like the many nights that followed, like the night at the church, the day they'd been bound for their immortal lives. The brown he fell in love with and if he were to go back? He would fall in love with them once more, how could he not?
The Dark Gift has given Lestat many things, and taken away just as many, but the one he finds most cruel is how he may never see the Sun dance in his lover's eyes like he's so heard romantics throw around. Umber turns to sienna turns to honey turns gold. It was not sheer coincidence the first time he feasted on Louis' beautiful blood was in a house which had been bathed in warm yellows of lamps, and watching Louis under them, watching the marks in his neck heal from Lestat's blood, his pupils dilated, the ring around them at the same time dark as wood and bright as street lights.
When Louis had accepted the Dark Gift, Lestat had, just for a moment wished his eyes stayed the same lovely mahogany, but he knew to get accustomed to being a creature of the dark, you had to unsurprisingly, be able to see well in the dark, and that came with the repercussions of very different eyes as compared to a normal human. He knew those brown eyes he'd fallen in love with wouldn't last.
And so brown became green, and yet, Lestat found himself falling in love once more. He loved how he could see the many shades of pthalo, and seafoam, and fern, how well he could see his lover's pupils dilate in passion, the way the lights of their townhouse reflected in them. The almost tangible way rage and lust and betrayal coloured those eyes as Louis pushed him against the wall and kissed him and stabbed him. The way his tears made the green turn almost bluish as his lover picked up the blade which would soon enough meet Lestat's throat. The hazel surrounded by red in that old theatre he never wanted to revisit, apologising for the things he knew were beyond forgiveness. The manic orange glow to them as Louis kissed the man who directed their daughter's death in front of him, sealing Lestat's death one last time.
Still, in his heart, green couldn't hold a match to the roaring wildfire that was brown.
Only now, with Louis in front of him, staring almost lovingly at Lestat with his plank of a piano and a hurricane thrashing outside, with the shared guilt and horror of losing their daughter laid out between them could he truly remark that the green he'd missed so much had just as strong a hold on his heart as the brown.
So, no, he really did not have any regrets.