"Hey, you're the one with the questionable taste who likes the guy from Planet Dirt." John hopes he likes him, anyway. That he hasn't gotten sick of him yet. It sounded cute in his head, but said aloud, he can't help but worry. Maybe he's got it wrong.

The fleeting thought, and silent, stealthy dip into insecurity, is enough to momentarily kill his appetite. He snubs the next rind with a childish turn of his head. Whisper birds are probably less of a pain in the ass.

"Besides, I'm as Lantean as I am Earthling. Water and dirt. Guess that makes me mud." He steals a long drink of Poe's beer, smirking over the glass.