Faolan isn't sure what it is that has his pulse quickening as it does. Perhaps it has something to do with the way that Lancelot laid his hand on his shoulder, the warmth of it, the weight of it, and the fact that Faolan is nowhere near to anyone touching him with the ease that Lancelot does. Perhaps it's the way that he leans in and murmurs in his ear, his voice as soft and affectionate as it is. Or perhaps it's the mixed smell of the soup on the table in front of him, and the coffee that he's just set before him, and whatever it is that makes Lancelot smell the way he does, that musky, earthy something. Perhaps it's some combination thereof. Regardless, Faolan finds his body reacting to it, and as Lancelot reaches out to ruffle his hair, he shifts in his chair slightly, on the pretense of ducking out from underneath the man's hand but really he is just looking to sit further under the table.

"You haven't shared your own, you know," Faolan points out, awkwardly. Flushing slightly as he reaches forward for his coffee, to give himself something to do with his hands. Dropping a couple of sugar cubes into the cup for good measure. "Don't go pointing fingers at me when you're equally guilty. You could have just asked."