Does he want a hug? Does he want to burst into tears? Does he want to leap out a window and eat a half dozen people and laugh about it, scream at the moon, rip someone's head off? Does he want to find out what his body does now, or call his eldest daughter and cry I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

He was prepared to die. He didn't want to die, but he'd done the trench work to get ready, since no one else was going to. He's interviewed enough people with suicidal desires to know that envisioning reactions and the state of the world after is a big part of the fantasy. (Louis, even, thinking about his cane and his pile of ash.) But that's never been Daniel. Someone would clear out his apartment and that would be that. He didn't even want to be buried. Cremated. Dumped in the ocean somewhere, just so no one would have to accidentally on purpose lose an urn. And then, nothing, because he's been so absent from anything of consequence anyway.

Here he is, in that fucking fantasy zone, except the fantasy's never been his.

"Will you tell me," he says, staring at his feet, thinking about taking solace in that touch to his back but not entirely sure how to go about it, "about what you were doing before? I interrupted you. About Lestat. Are you okay?"