Scrutinizing the wisps of smoke coiling up from a cigarette between his fingers, Eoin appeared deep in thought. âYer know whatâs a shame?â the cambion finally spoke, between taking a fresh drag of the cancer stick, âI havenât danced since..â The Scotsman paused, shifting through the endless files of memories within his brain until it settled on one moment in-particular. âMarch of 2009.. me buddyâs wedding, drunker than shite.. The lot of us destroyed that wooden stage..â Snorting to himself as he remembered it, he exhaled smoke at the same time he snuffed out the cigarette on the bottom of his shoe. âI donât know why I havenât since,â Eoin commented then with a bothersome furrow to his brow. âAye, I love to dance.â Indeed, the man had an arsenal of styles he had learned throughout his lifetime, a testament to the fact he did enjoy it. Any form of spontaneous expression drew him in like a month to the flame, of course. âWhy donât I dance if I love to dance?â The question was whispered more to himself, clearly expecting no answer, though he looked so perplexed by it. Finally, those blue eyes looked up suddenly and bore into the other person. âYer want to dance?â
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