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The grave sat beneath a weeping willow. Louis stood over it, staring at the headstone. His name carved deep, his death neatly dated.
Lestat joined him, hands in his pockets. “You always pick the gloomy ones. There’s a perfectly nice crypt with a view over the river, but no, you like the tragic tree.”
Louis didn’t answer. His gaze stayed on the headstone. “Grace made it,” he said quietly. “She thought I’d want peace.”
Lestat’s voice softened. “And did you?”
Louis finally looked at him. “I wanted her to think I had it.”
Lestat stepped closer, close enough that their shoulders brushed. “You could’ve told me this was here,” he said.
“And you would've been insufferable then, making fun of me.”
Lestat smiled faintly. "Well, you're right. But that’s part of my charm.”
Louis let out a soft laugh.
They stood there a while. Two immortals looking down at a grave that used to mean something. Then Lestat’s hand found Louis's and he intertwined their fingers. “She buried who you were, Louis,” he said. “But she didn’t know what you’d become.”
Louis’s fingers tightened, barely. “Maybe I’m still figuring that out.”
“And you are doing great at it,” Lestat murmured.
Louis turned to him, the corner of his mouth curving. He squeezed Lestat's hand and Lestat leaned closer and pressed his lips on Louis's temple, like a reassurance that everything is going to be okay.