Faolan glances up at the other man uncertainly from across the room but does as he's told. Opening his new lager, he carefully carries it across the room and moves to sit down once more beside the other man. Taking another sip before resting it in his knee. Trying to be calm and casual when he is feeling anything but.

He flicks a tentative smile at the other man before he glances down at his hands in his lap. "Forgive me," he says softly, "though you may not believe me when I say so, I'm not usually so..." He trails off, not knowing quite the word he's looking for. It's true though. Other people haven't had the same effects on him that Lancelot seems to draw out, or if they have it has been so long since he felt this way -- nearly in another life by now -- that he can hardly remember.

He shoots a quick glance up at the other man as he feels the need to elaborate, "I promise that it's not another spell though."