who: esmé everhart & weston davis @wesfms when: after the brawl. where: blast.
“ YOU LOOK LIKE shit. ” he managed not to have his own split lip or black eye, but a closer inspection upon esmé everhart’s pristine form would reveal the scrapes against his knuckles and the slight tear in his blazer. evidence to suggest even he was not above bloodying himself when tempers ran high (but he would deny it entirely if confronted, in true everhart fashion). whatever calm had broken through the crowd at the gym and separated the sea of bodies from tearing into one-another had given way to a temporary peace, once that had the philanthropist stepping aside and slinking back into the shadows where he usually dwelled. he’d opened a betting pool for the entire duration of the fights, sour as he was that some of them turned out the way he did. still, mischief marked his otherwise flawless expression and esmé nearly sneered for the scuffed up appearance of his closest friend.
“ i’m happy i bet against you, otherwise i would have lost a decent chunk of change. mateo has a lot of anger. though clearly not enough. ” whatever cheap tricks the dogs had pulled to come out on top overall were lackluster at best, and esmé knew they’d get their chance to wrest control back in the public eye. it was all about biding time. “ some rat tore my jacket. and i don’t want to linger here when the police come. escort me home. i’ll take care of your face. ”