Smirking around the rim of his glass, Bob's eyes stay fixed on John's as he takes a silent gulp of his drink. It's not that he's rushing it, exactly, but he's not being slow about it either. Since the other man was kind enough to buy him a drink, he's sure he can think of a few ways to return the favour later.

But at the next answer, his eyebrows shoot up and he puts his glass back on the bar top with a clunk. Maybe a little too hard but he's never been good at not reacting first and then thinking later.

"Seven months? Fuck, that's some time, mate. I've only been here one and I'm already missing home like mad." He's honest, maybe a little too honest sometimes, and he shakes his head like he can't imagine what seven months here might be like. Missing home is something that hasn't got any better no matter how many new friends he thinks he's made here. He misses talking to his family, his mates. He misses being an idiot in and around the streets of his city. His London. He's homesick.