Like he would have cared about cups, like he cared about not looking like a degenerate. Shit, right now he didn't care what he looked like period. But he accepts the cup, toasts just as mockingly, and knocks back the contents in the better part of one gulp before putting the cup down and refilling it. It burns in his chest, and his throat, and he relishes it, savors it until it dulls again. He doesn't think about it, makes a point to not think about what that means, because it doesn't matter, not really.

"To the fucking survivors. Go us."