[ He shake shakes his head, a rhythmic and insistent back and forth, but he can't school his mouth down enough to say no you don't. It's implied, it's heavily implied even if he can't get it out.

A second or two later affords him some composure, and he rights himself enough to dip forward and thumb at one of his eyes. He's not quite been reduced to tears, but there's a definite wetness at the corners that he rubs away. ]

Oh, god.

[ He manages absently, a little strained. Between the smoke and the sucking down air, his throat's dry as hell. He pushes to his feet, still rubbing at his eyelashes, pitching out an offer. ]

Hey man, you want some SunnyD? Or like... B or C, or G, fuck. Or water, but I'm tryin' to get rid of my failures.