Faolan winces slightly at the hissed words, at the press of his hand on his shoulder, at the look on Lancelot's face as he settles down in his chair and forces in a breath, and his own eyes fall onto his plate at Lancelot's words. One of my dearest friends, Lancelot says, and Faolan feels himself flooding with guilt all over at that.

"...I don't want to fight with you either," Faolan admits, his voice falling low. He doesn't even really want to leave, truth be told. He's just not sure how he won't make things worse by staying either. But if Lancelot wants him here... Faolan clutches the blanket tighter around himself and slumps slightly in the chair he's been pinned down into. "I just. I don't know what..." he says, before trailing off again, eyes fixed on the table in front of him as he does.