Faolan doesn't quite know why he's sat there, continually stroking the other man's hair while he's slept. He tells himself it's so that he can keep his hand close, to adjust the cloth on the other man's forehead when it starts slipping, and to flip it every now and then to press the cooler side that'd been exposed to the air across his heated skin. But it might also have something to do with the way that the other man seems to react to the touch, pressing closer and humming pleasantly every now and again.

He's faced then, of course, with a dilemma. He should really stop. He should really get up and leave then. What if Lancelot wakes up and notices him -- but of course if he rises then he'll move the bed and wake him up anyway, and he needs his sleep. So he stays poised where he is, gentle fingers stroking through the other man's hair. -- that is, until he does wake up.

If Faolan could have withdrawn his hand any faster he might have toppled himself off the bed in his surprise. A flush creeps up his face and neck and he turns away from the other man, lest Lancelot further catch him out. "I didn't," Faolan stutters, playing with the cloth between his hands. "I -- It wasn't..."