In spite of all of Lestat's presumptuous arrogance, there is a slant of soft surprise to his mouth before Louis covers it with his own. He kisses him like he might be able to chase the elusive taste of Louis' laughter, that melody as sweet as his maudlin sighs are bitter.

He could suggest other worst things they could do in a church. The door has a lock, and they have practice being quiet as church-mice themselves. But something of the moment forestalls him. The bruised tenderness, the risk. The delicate elation of being reached for first, as though he is balm and not poison, or so it feels.

Lestat slips an arm around Louis' waist and anchors him to his chest, willing his heartbeat to bleed through the insulation of his coat. He slows the kiss, deepens it, drawing it out like a dream of a long summer night.

He has rarely been so happy at a wake. He was right about snow.