Magnus sighs, drains the rest of his root beer, and tosses the bottle in an easy arc directly into the trash can, where it clatters against the walls as it falls. Oh, score.

Then he forces himself not to cross his arms again. Bigger man, he reminds himself. Lancelot is being, like. Surprisingly decent? Horrifyingly. To keep himself from crossing his arms, he wraps his fingers around the edge of the counter, letting it bite into his palms. "Look," he says. "Some of my issues with you are on me and my issues, not on you and your behavior. I'll own that."