Erik already felt out of his depth enough; if Kitty had rolled her eyes he would probably have directed her tersely to the kitchen and that would have been that. His pride was such that sometimes the knife in his spine wouldn't bend, and he didn't do well with being made to feel even more ridiculous than he was doing on his own.
But as things were he drew a breath in through his nose rather than the mouth stitched in a thin line, and let it out again. He couldn't have Charles, that was simply accepted fact, but that didn't keep him from asking himself what Charles might do. Not what he'd say, Erik was a more realistic creature than to attempt to breach the borders of that magical land, but action--there. He could at least attempt that. "Insomnia," he shrugged, a languid snap of one shoulder that time, "it's either that or run laps."
No one was ever in a position to enjoy his jokes, and so narrative would never tire of pointing out that was what they in fact were. "I can't imagine a self-described 'manor'," emphasis on the word, vaguely derisive, "lacking cocoa, including this one." He paused, considered giving Kitty a hand up, and didn't. Instead he knelt to offer her his arm, a formalized gesture that provided at great deal more information than it meant to in a short-sleeved t-shirt. "Although I hope you don't mean those microwaved packages."
The horror in his voice was real--okay no, it was not. But really, Erik essentially detested all things chocolate, and even he thought the powdered variety was an abomination.