Faolan huffs out a breath into Lancelot's shoulder, both exasperated and enamored with the other man's sense of humor at once. He appreciates it, though, and moreover appreciates Lancelot himself in this moment. Forcing himself to continue to breathe and calm himself, he nuzzles into the other man's sweatshirt before turning his head to simply rest against his side instead.

"I'm sorry," he says, after a moment. "That I didn't call ahead. I was headed home, but. Then I found myself getting off at your stop instead. And so..." He shrugs slightly. "I thought it might be better to talk to you about this in person instead." He can only imagine what such a phone call might have gone like, had he wound up slowly driving himself mad alone in his apartment instead.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," he says quietly, after a moment.