[ he takes the drink but he pointedly doesn't drink any of it, instead opting to hold it delicately between the tips of his fingers because, sugar content aside, it's hot, fam. but then peter speaks, and the fruitcake remarks earns a sideways glance and an inhalation of breath that's almost definitely the start of a sigh before miguel decides that taking a sip of the hot chocolate would be a better use of his time than responding.

(the hot chocolate's gross, thanks for asking, and miguel's expression — short, sharp disgust and a glance down into the cup — reflects his viewpoint adequately.) ]

Las Posadas, [ miguel remarks with a loose shrug ], and Mass were the extent of my traditions growing up. [ the enunciation and emphasis of 'mass' implies that, at least, is a tradition he's either lost, abandoned, or never much enjoyed in the first place.

(lapsed catholic, You Know How It Is.)

and much like peter can't imagine the townspeople indulging in jewish traditions, miguel can't imagine they'll rush out to embrace children breaking piñata, so. mood, basically. ] But at this point, I'd happily go to church just to pray I'm not given another jellied loaf from a "well-meaning" neighbour who missed out on the concept of food being edible.