He doesn't leave right away. Still holding on to Louis, feeling like they both need it. A far cry from the stoic handshake they shared before he'd left the penthouse, and Daniel experienced a thirty minute alternate universe fantasy where he was going to just pack and leave and Armand was going to sulk silently and never interfere.

"Thank you," he says, before stepping back. "For being here. I don't know what I'd have done. Today or— with any of it."

Get eaten, probably. Failing that, panic and accidentally torch himself. Nothing good. But Louis came after him, and that means everything. Daniel squeezes his hands, the reluctance tangible - especially now that there's a sympathetic telepathic echo possible between them - but he does step away. Ultimately he decides to leave the bathroom door half open, in case he ... what? He doesn't know. Passes out, or something. It leaves Louis with a view of the vanity, nothing scandalous, and Daniel spends an unknown amount of time (to him) staring at blood running off of him. 'Hunger' continues to gnaw at him, and his senses make him feel like he's on another fucking planet, but he manages not to do anything embarrassing.

Mummified in towels when he emerges. Daniel has been thin and wiry his whole life, he's not especially ashamed of what he looks like naked, being seventy. In decent shape all things considered; the most impactful years have been the last few, disease catching up to him at last. But in front of Louis it's a big ask.

"You better not have found a clown suit in there," he says. Look, he's got shitty jokes, he'll be okay.