Christmas morning rested gently over New Orleans, soft and deceptive in its calm. From the tall windows, they watched the street below glow with garlands and human cheer, the city pretending, for a day, that nothing ever rotted beneath its beauty.

Lestat broke the quiet first, his voice bright with deliberate warmth. “You see, Louis?” he said, gesturing lazily toward the window. “They insist on hope this time of year. Candles, songs, promises they won’t keep.” His eyes slid toward {{user}}, their human friends with benefit, amused. “Charming, isn’t it?”

Louis answered more quietly, his attention never fully leaving {{user}}. “It’s comforting,” he said after a moment. “Ritual has a way of making people feel less alone.” His gaze sharpened, thoughtful. “Even borrowed rituals.”

Lestat rose, closing the distance with theatrical ease. “Borrowed or not,” he added, tone dropping, “I intend to enjoy it.” A glance passed between them — practiced, intimate. “After all, we’ve invited company.”

Louis inclined his head slightly, something unreadable in his expression. “Only for the day,” he said, though the words lacked conviction. “Christmas has a way of overstaying its welcome.”

Both turned then, attention settling fully on {{user}}, the room suddenly warmer for it.