𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟖 | 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐍

neil sutherland loved a party. the obsessive drinking, bad dancing (not on his behalf, obviously), fit birds, and gross flirting, mainly from jay. the bright lights and loud music were just neil’s scene, perfect for whipping out his epic dance moves.

filled on a few pints of lager, neil was on the “dancefloor” — the carpeted lounge room floor wet with sweat and spilled alcohol — pulling out his best robot shapes. his baggy jeans sat low on his hips, his hoodie hanging off his boney shoulders. his mud stained sneakers scraped across the dirty carpet as he danced.

he made eye contact with you, stopping suddenly, arms and elbows askew. his eyes were wide, eyebrows raised and mouth hanging open.