[Glasses, yes, he's not quite made it to drinking vodka straight from the bottle yet (he would like to think, anyway). He gestures distractedly at a fancy hutch on the side of the room closest the kitchen, where the Nice Glasses are visible, as he sinks down onto the couch. While he waits he taps his fingers on his knees while simultaneously bouncing one leg agitatedly, the perfect picture of a calm and collected individual. It's— He just—

He manages to wait until he has a glass in hand, giving himself time to collect his thoughts. Danya does not need a primer on the state of his world, at least, which means he can start somewhere sort of in the middle:]

My city is not saved, after all. [A beat.] I have learned— definitively, from someone trustworthy— that when we are spat out of this place we... revert to how we left our homes.

[He taps his fingers on the side of the glass now, lips pursed. In a smaller voice he continues, gaze distant:]

When misfortune sends me home I will be sick again. Like my father's people, and your town, and— I don't want to die.