Louis said. I’m not going to hit you. I’m not going to hit you. I’m not going to lay a hand against you. I’m going to put my hands on my new man, kiss him sweet and slow in your view, so you can remember me using tongue on him in perfect clarity. I’m going and I’m taking him with me, and wherever you are the rest of your miserable life you can imagine me with him. Any others you’ll chase, you’ll know in your heart they will be mere pale imitations of me. Thesps in my shadow. I’m leaving, and I’ll be with him. I just wanted you to know. And he was RIGHT. That truly was the best and most cutting way he could hurt Lestat. Lestat thought of him with another man for the rest of eternity, until he withered away in a shack in the tatters of their New Orleans home, thought of him until it ate him up inside, driving him to ruin without appetite, drinking the bare minimum from rats, like what he gave him, thought of him and their daughter, the daughter they had together, forever — for the rest of time— Louis Louis Louis Louis Louis— Not a day went by where Lestat could be happy or fulfilled or live without thinking about Louis with someone else. Louis was right.