A slightly defensive shrinking into his seat, that he is not making sense. Maybe not. The hysterics have ebbed, a necessary draining of energy when no one is yelling right back at him. He glances to Louis, finds it startling when eye contact is made, enough to look back out the window.

"He was here," after a moment. "I went out to hunt and found him instead, wandering around."

Reluctant to state it plainly, a pause, swallowing around a fresh blood taste as he clears his throat. Is it shame? Did Armand not deserve it? He leans his head against the glass of the window. Tolerates the vibrating rattle of it. It doesn't matter, he supposes.

"I started it, the fight we had. I was angry to see him. Angry that he wouldn't leave Louis in peace." It was Daniel, anyway, who was quite sure that all of this was about Louis. But so too is Lestat, without that encouragement. Why wouldn't it be about Louis, and in extension, be about himself? "I told him he needed to leave us all alone. He disagreed. We spoke on the subject. We fought until dawn."

And then the sun. This, Lestat keeps to himself. Too strange to say out loud. "I shook free of him. I fled. I found my refuge."