Faolan isn't quite sure what to do with himself while Lancelot bustles around the kitchen and does a little washing up here, a little putting away of the leftovers there. He watches the other man work and fiddles with his glass, taking slow and careful sips as he tries not to feel too awkward about being hosted as completely as the other man likes to do.
And then he's setting down a cake in front of him, and plates, only it doesn't stop there, but Lancelot sets a little candle in the middle of it, and sets the thing alight. Whispering to him from behind, where he stands with his hands on his shoulders, Faolan can feel his heart racing in his chest once more. All of this? For him? Faolan can't remember when the last time someone knew his birthday, never mind celebrated it, never mind made him a cake with a candle in it. He turns to shoot a wary glance over his shoulder at the other man, equal parts uncertain, vulnerable, but hesitantly grateful all at once.
Part of him can't believe that at 28, he's sitting here blowing out a birthday candle and making a wish. Part of him quiets that part down and blows out the candle and makes the wish anyway. Even if he does feel slightly embarrassed for it. A healthy flush works its way across his face, down his neck, and over his ears, and he's pretty sure that he can hear his heart pounding in his chest. He's going to need another moment before he stands from the table again as well, and he isn't sure why. The hands on his shoulders? That smell, the other man's cologne perhaps it is? That whispering in his ear, maybe.
"I haven't blown out a candle like that in over a decade, you know," he says, because he needs to find some reason to explain why he should appear so flustered in front of the other man.
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And then he's setting down a cake in front of him, and plates, only it doesn't stop there, but Lancelot sets a little candle in the middle of it, and sets the thing alight. Whispering to him from behind, where he stands with his hands on his shoulders, Faolan can feel his heart racing in his chest once more. All of this? For him? Faolan can't remember when the last time someone knew his birthday, never mind celebrated it, never mind made him a cake with a candle in it. He turns to shoot a wary glance over his shoulder at the other man, equal parts uncertain, vulnerable, but hesitantly grateful all at once.
Part of him can't believe that at 28, he's sitting here blowing out a birthday candle and making a wish. Part of him quiets that part down and blows out the candle and makes the wish anyway. Even if he does feel slightly embarrassed for it. A healthy flush works its way across his face, down his neck, and over his ears, and he's pretty sure that he can hear his heart pounding in his chest. He's going to need another moment before he stands from the table again as well, and he isn't sure why. The hands on his shoulders? That smell, the other man's cologne perhaps it is? That whispering in his ear, maybe.
"I haven't blown out a candle like that in over a decade, you know," he says, because he needs to find some reason to explain why he should appear so flustered in front of the other man.