"No it isn't shut up," without pause.

He tosses the shirt and book unceremoniously on his bed before doubling back to the ugly little contraption on his dresser. He's managed to work out that it makes some manner of hot drink seeing as there are cups and sachets, but the English is different than what he's used to, paired back in a way that is stupidly frustrating.

"This thing makes tea," he decides aloud and gestures. Why don't you make us some."

If it's poisoned then they're going out together.