March's 'sit' is less a word and more a motion with his chin, and he follows a little while after, sliding down in the same fashion but keeping appropriate distance. Enough to talk (enough to talk as privately as this place can afford), but not enough to crowd. Crowding teens never worked, and March doesn't like people too in his shit either, so a little squat a ways away it is.

"Motivations don't matter. You're still doing better than some of the grown men here," the blonde points out, absolutely including himself. He fishes for his lighter and roots around in his jacket pocket, realizes he doesn't have any cigarettes on him, and sighs heavily. Old habits really do die hard.

"Where'd you learn this shit anyway? Thought you crashed cars and skateboarded around your San Fran home."