Elvis can't help but laugh in turn, a sound that's rare these days, so much so that it almost feels unnatural, as if it were coming from someone else instead of him. Most of the time, he tries, he does, but that's only enough to go from day to day, to talk him down from the metaphorical ledge. Any real enthusiasm is more difficult to come by. For the moment, though, there's nothing, like the rest of the world has fallen away, that split-second of weightlessness before gravity tugs him backwards again. They might be doing this wrong, but he doesn't give a shit. At least they're doing it at all.

"Yeah, me too," he says when he's close enough to her that he doesn't think the words will get lost, half-watching her all the while to make sure he doesn't veer into her. One hand keeping himself steady, he brings his cigarette back to his mouth with the other, exhaling a slow cloud of smoke. "Couldn't even tell you the last time I did this."