Sweeney sets the bottle in the grass and takes down a cigarette. The silence dangles as he holds it to his lips and digs out his lighter to breath it to life. A long drag; his eyes sliding up the glass ceiling.

"Die of old age," he offers, pushing the answer past the smoke in his lungs. Its tendrils flee him after the words have gone. The reply is given in deadpan sincerity, and his focus drops to her promptly after.