"Because it's not a spell!" Faolan bursts out, whipping around to face the other man, throwing off his balance slightly, but he valiantly presses on. "Christ Lancelot. Is it really that difficult to imagine that I might care for you of my own free will? How can you think--"

But of course he knows why he thinks it might be a spell. Because he's held himself back from the truth, from admitting anything even remotely resembling the truth, and from letting Lancelot see anything close to it either, save for when he had been under the influence of the potion in the tea.

"The tea was temporary. And the only reason it worked so well on me was that I already had the emotions in place to begin with. What more is there to understand?" Faolan asks, bitterly. "You cannot fix this, Lancelot. There is no counter spell to the truth. And I have done my best to ignore it, but it will not go away. But I can." If this has made things too uncomfortable between them, now that the truth is out, then he will go. And stay away, if necessary. Even if it should hurt. Maybe it would be better that way. He turns to reach for his bag again.