Paul gives Metody a little half-blink at the quiet-but-practically-squee'd enthusiasm at the mention. Oh-kay, pineapple juice it is.

He twists on the bar seat again, waves his braceletted wrist rudely towards the bartender until it dings-- he's not trying to be particularly generous, per se, but newbies get some freebies as far as he's concerned and anyway he's closer to the bar-- and he reaches back to hook a finger around the resulting juice glass, bring it back, and offer it over.

"Cheers, then. You're twenty-seven?" Slight skepticism.