By now, Faolan's picked apart as much of the meal as he can. It's mostly eaten, although there's a bit of leftover toast he just couldn't bring himself to finish that he's poking about as if it will just magically disappear. He glances up at Lancelot at the question before looking back at the plate and forcing himself to put down the utensils at least. Reaching for his drink, taking a sip, playing with it in his hands a little, swirling it in the glass, before he finally responds. Taking in a breath and letting it out slowly to steady himself. Flushing slightly, no less.

"You made me a birthday cake," he says, awkwardly, knowing that will give Lancelot an idea of the timing without actually mentioning that it had been since November.