Re: shiloh & harlow ; dancing
The powder in his blood helped a bit, but it truly wasn't necessary as a requirement for Shiloh to be bombastic. He was the sort who screamed when he walked into a room. He quite liked the spotlight settled firmly on him, and he felt no shame in carousing around the living room with her in circles.
He laughed with every impact, every shoulder met with, every drink sloshed. He looked, for all the world, like a carefree and entitled young man, one who'd never toiled a day or experienced a day of hardship. His smile was wide, smirk and crooked, and he looked upon the girl with the angel-wing lids as if she was a glowing beacon in a room of insignificant shadows. No one here mattered to him; he hated this town thoroughly, and it was only the safety of the self-absorbed assholes who lived here that kept him here. But this moment, it was a grand one, and he enjoyed the laughter that flowed from Harlow, unhindered, and too many people were concerned about appearances. But she was like some wild flower, and he appreciated that about her.
The lamp teetered, and Harlow teetered, and Shiloh considered finishing the lamp's topple. But she flopped, and, fine, he flopped beside her in a heap of long legs and sharp elbows. He glanced over at her through curls gone even more askance than usual, and his head was a tilt-a-whirl, and even more than usual. He leaned said head back against the cushions and regarded the ceiling briefly. "They don't know they're alive, darling," he clarified of the gathered collection of skeletons surrounding them.