"That's-- I--" Faolan stumbles over his words some more, but he's not about to deny it. Because he can't really. Maybe the mooning, or at least the use of the word. But he can't deny his feelings for the other man. And why should he really? He's not ashamed of them. They're just... They're terribly inconvenient, all things considered.

He glances up at her and then across at Lancelot, back at her and then down at his drink, struggling to figure out what to say, how to respond before he finally shrugs. "A while," he replies. Which really doesn't cover the half of it, but she's a stranger to him, and something of competition at that, so he doesn't know that he really owes her much of anything at all.