Ernest/Abi
Ernest had been trying his damnedest not to react too much to seeing Abi dance with Gatsby, but it was seriously fucking difficult. He found that he was drinking twice as fast as he should just for some way to occupy himself, and typically, it seemed that every time he just happened to glance in her direction, she caught him.
"Fucking hell," he mumbled to himself, downing a shot of whiskey, and pretending to listen to a young Scotsman intently, when he wasn't even entirely sure what he was talking about anymore. Who the fuck was Dylan Thomas and why did he keep going on about him?
The younger man continued with the story, and Ernest just watched Abi's legs. watching the way the feathered skirt moved with her, the way she swayed to the music, her skin glowing- and his eyes moved up her body slowly checking her out, to realise that yes, of course- caught again. He smirked slightly at her across the room, and then decided to go for a little bit of a wander.
He refilled his glass, clapped the young man on the shoulder as a goodbye, and weaved through the crowd back into the hall, going up the stairs to have a proper look around this imaginary house.