York's tucked sort of off by himself, apparently reading, but they're at the level of casual personal-space-invasion where North feels perfectly within his rights plopping down across from him with his tray of lunch, peering at the bowl of fruit he's picking curiously.
"What, don't you like the blue ones?" He asks, reaching out his fork to jab one.
B
"What, don't you like the blue ones?" He asks, reaching out his fork to jab one.