She's stopped smoking months ago, feels like ages already, in an effort to clear up the space that always danced by her eyes, whorls and wisps of emotion, thought, feeling obscuring her vision, up until it was almost impossible to walk forward at all. But the scent of smoke in the air isn't one that she shies from, nor one that she fears, because the choices of others have always been out of her control, and she doesn't mind having them remain just that. When she has to pick her own path, inevitably she looks to the others, wondering these days if she's chosen correctly, stepping too often on the precipice and realizing that she's gone too far, broken and battered by the time she reaches a foothold. This, though, is Elvis' calm, and she breathes it in to allay her nerves, so often bunched these days. Tony is only ever going to be a storm in her life, Effy's come to realize, and she can't hope for the harbor to stay standing for long.

It's almost a disappointment when he catches sight of her before she's quite at her destination, but it doesn't stop Effy from sliding easy arms around his shoulders from behind. The swing gives way in the same fashion that Elvis does, and if she were to liken him to any plant, it'd be the ivy creeping up the side of the older buildings in town, stretching towards the sun. He gives way, easily. But he hangs on, always within her reach. Effy drops her lips briefly to the nape of his neck, chaste, before laughing at how she can't quite get him in a still hold. Back and forth they swing, but the motion is steady.

"'lo," she greets, the word hanging on an exhale as she leans forward, thin arms resting lightly, her chin on his slightly bony shoulder. The sun's shining overhead, the wind rustles through the trees, and everything is alive and moving, never stopping, all but the two of them, nestled behind glass.

"Need a push?"