Chozen takes up his place on the other side of the tray with a soft exhale, like a dog settling into a basket. He holds his tea much like Daniel does, but doesn't drink it right away, savouring the moments of anticipation and peace first. That, and the mild quirk of his mouth at Daniel's self-correction.

"Nothing too bad to deal with," he echoes, first, in reassurance, before he sips his tea. He makes a little show of his enjoyment, his sigh of satisfaction nearly good enough for casting in a colourful beverage commercial. Daniel makes good tea. He makes tea that tastes like the kind Chozen grew up with, and he reflects on the funny accident of fate and distance and time that lets him still drink that tea, all the way in another world, next to a man who grew up across an ocean from him.

"They are not very good neighbours by anywhere's standards," he says, mildly, "Very rude. No respect."

Two men in the dignified latter halves of their lives sitting on a stoop in spring sunshine, drinking tea, and grousing about the young new transplants in their local area is surely about as normal as things can be. He doesn't mind going along with Daniel's efforts to keep things orderly and understandable in the world; if anything, he admires it. Someone needs to keep things rooted.