"It never will be personal!" Faolan counters, too intoxicated to catch the other man's wary (and perhaps somewhat pointed) glances around the room at the people nearby. Too intoxicated to understand (or perhaps more accurately care) that his train of thought is only making sense to Faolan himself.

"And that's the problem! Not if I'm buying you mugs that you like," he bemoans. "Not if I'm the 'friend' who makes life more exciting than you care for it to be. Weren't those the words you used?" Or something along those lines anyway, he doesn't really remember the exact words at this point. "Not if you're placating me with sausage rolls instead of listening to what I have to say." He had asked him out, after all. Hadn't he? He'd meant to, at least. It's all getting to be rather jumbled.