[ A trade, then, if he has to give it up: Cloud takes the cig and Reno reaches for what's left of the beer. Don't sulk, he'll get them another one in a minute. Maybe even two, fun as it is to drink out of the same cup like two kids at recess. As it turns out, he's going to have to, because this is a mistake.

He expects Cloud to hork on it and cough. What he doesn't expect is—to be mid-sip and suddenly choke himself, sputtering beer straight up into his face, back into the cup, onto the table, and a little down the side of his neck. There's something really visceral about half-drowning on a sip of shitty beer, attempting to hack it back out of your lungs while also helplessly laughing your ass off at the same time, and frankly, even if he's just made a ginormous mess he'll be incredibly grateful for the experience later.

Nothing has been this funny for a long time. ]

Fuc—k.

[ It only makes it worse that he practically gurgles that word, half muffled into his suitsleeve as he tries to wipe his beer-covered face. God damn, it nearly went up his nose. It's a couple of seconds before he can manage words, festooned with hysterical giggles. ]

Yeah, you suck on it. 'n if you wanna get really fancy, try using your tongue. That'll really get it going.

[ There's beer soaking into his collar, and it's really gonna be a bitch when he finds out there's no dry cleaning here, not when he doesn't have any handy replacements to change into like he does back home (weird how the suits survived but the people didn't). It's fine, because at this point there's beer, like, all over him: his face, running down his chest, puddled on the table, backwashed in the mostly-empty glass. And that's okay, because all that means is now, finally, it's really a party. ]

Jus' take a drag, man. Hold it for a sec, then take a deep breath in and out. It's that easy.