The buzz of Daniel's thoughts is a palpable thing. Stronger for proximity, maybe, or because Louis is so attuned to Daniel in this moment. (Every moment, every moment in which they inhabit the same space, since the interview.) Louis keeps the detail and shape of those thoughts carefully out of focus, the slow sweep of his palm a firm pressure circling from the nape of Daniel's neck and down to the small of his back, over and over. Maintaining steadily; Daniel hasn't pulled away, hasn't stabilized either, and so Louis continues.

A moment of quiet in the wake of the question. Not withholding, not really, only parsing out his answer. Trying to pin down a thing he's scarcely given thought to himself.

"I'll tell you," he acquiesces, between he sweeps of his hand, observing Daniel's face in profile. "After I remind you that you haven't interrupted anything."

Insistent on this point, unwilling to let even this glancing comment stand. Continuing on, without leaving Daniel the space for an objection.

"I went to New Orleans," softly, a murmur into the space between them. "I wanted to go home."

Home. Louis' voice softening further over this word. New Orleans. Lestat. The two mingle, intertwine.

"I found him there."