Faolan at least waits until they're in the hall where Lancelot wants him, if only for the fact that he can't concentrate on walking and talking and thinking at the same time. (Not that he is doing all that much thinking to begin with, of course.)

Why is he so upset? Well, he supposes it's as good a place to start as any. "Your face," Faolan explains, turning to the other man angrily, although at least he doesn't attempt to shake Lancelot's hand off of him. "The way you looked at her. At both of them. All of them, I don't know. You're. It's not the same. It never has been. I just didn't understand. Not until today." He shakes his head as he rambles. "I just thought. I mean, I'm always here, and you let me stay. But why?" He looks up at the other man, his eyes dark and hazily unfocused from the drink, but also troubled. Almost hurt. "And why not me? Am I too safe? Is that it?"