Faolan shoots the other man a look before he reaches for the hollandaise himself. How many times must he repeat himself before Lancelot realizes that he's not only complimenting the other man's cooking, but that he really does consider this a lot more intricate than anything he'd have made for himself. Than he'd have even thought of making for himself. And certainly, growing up in Ireland, his family had never been in the habit of poaching eggs on brioche for breakfast. Not for a family of eight.

"Doesn't matter," he mumbles, hunching over himself slightly to hide his embarrassment, reaching for his coffee for a moment instead. "Forget it." He'll just deliberately drop a few moments behind on his meal to watch how Lancelot eats it instead.