The teen's bootsteps announce his arrival far before the sigh of the seat of the barstool. Asamar slides onto the seat two down from the skinny unknown, decked out in his general's jacket (still with that well-traveled layer of dirt), and his marching pants. The black pocket t-shirt only sports a small white stain near the hem, probably from his deodorant. A set of keys rattles to silence once he's done taking him seat.
He doesn't turn to look at the other boy, only tipping his aviator sunglasses back to rest on his head. Tired eyes peer to the back wall and then the menu. "Two large supremes. Cheesy crust. Don't skimp on the pizza sauce." That's an order! ...Literally.