✿ DAYDREAM / BELIEVER.

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The blonde watches him stumble, a slightly amused grin playing at her lips, “Friendly friends? Is that what the kids are saying these days?” She teases, a laugh passing her lips as she keeps her gaze upon Ziggy. She likes this game. Angelina lets out a breath then, shaking her head as her voice takes on a self-deprecating tone- still appropriately political, “Wrangling all of them for a photo opp proves more difficult than you’d imagine. We Holbrooks are better dressed than the Kardashians this year though, I can confidently say that.” She doesn’t know much about that famous family and she also doesn’t want to stay on that topic long enough to draw a Kris Jenner comparison, so she says, “Where is my daughter anyway? Did she run in the other direction when she heard my voice?” She’s not sure how much he knows about Angelina’s relationship with her eldest, but if they’re close enough to be here together then she’s sure what he knows from Alicia isn’t particularly complimentary in her direction. 

—

It’s true, there’s always been an undercurrent of the unknown laced into his and Liz’s relationship, little suggestions of the possibility for more only ever existing in the margins — albeit, quickly erased ( or, forcibly scratched out ) by accusations of change, and not for the better. Ironically enough, it was the shared refusal to change in accommodation of the other which made them so strikingly similar, meaning that whatever they were would sit solidly in the territory of friends until one acquiesced to the seemingly impossible, if only to reignite the accusation storm once again. 

The recognition of all this is what brings the ease back to his smile as he explains, “We’re friends. Sorry — that’s just this silly inside joke we have.” Sure, he was half-lying to the mayor, but any guilt would surely be washed away with a laugh from Liz. “I think a couple curators wanted to talk to her in private, so...” Ziggy is improvising, covering for a friend who did exactly as her mother expected. “You know how it is: Artists run to their galleries, florists run to their flower walls, and politicians to their—” Now, he’s ripping off the band-aid to steer the conversation away from Liz and to himself instead, to the history between he and Angelina, right down to the goodbye he never gave, but certainly acted on. “Former consultant?”

“Had to make sure I wouldn’t be interrupting your moment with Harry,” he explains through an easy joke as he takes a few tentative steps into her little corner of the afterparty. It’s not hard to imagine that it to be a sign of some deity’s existence that a certain Mr. Styles is, in fact, not in attendance tonight, readily being dazzled by the someone who, in Ziggy’s eyes, would always light up the room. It also requires exactly no effort at all to slip into an increasingly demanding part of his imagination, to a version of now that once seemed not just possible, but expected: the two of them, together, shutting the whole damn thing down. 

An uncertain laugh precedes the act of stuffing a bejeweled hand into a jacket pocket, while his weight shifts on his feet, through a right-left marching pattern that takes him nowhere. Each one is a tell-tale sign of having something to say, and not knowing how, so for the time being, he’ll lean on something else to do some form of talking. It’s not a peace offering, exactly, but yet another remnant of the past he’d once expected to see in the present — this present — their present. His hand reveals a bracelet made of small blue flowers, stems intricately braided together to create a loop. With a growing smile, Ziggy explains, “You and I both know that vintage Chanel rarely needs the embellishment, but on the off-chance you fancied some flowers...” Words trail into a laugh, the first easy one he’s had in an evening littered with press-hungry paparazzi and power-grabbing politicians. “You off duty tonight? Or, should I expect a cease an’ desist regarding flower walls delivered to my doorstep tomorrow morning, signed, sealed, and delivered by Ms. Wintour herself?”

Truthfully, Ziggy hadn’t stepped foot into a proper gym in some time. It wasn’t that he didn’t need to, of course — but the more compelling reason for avoiding them outright was the man’s steadfast belief that the toxic masculinity of NYC gym bros could fuck right off, thank you very much. This place, in all its rigid brick and chrome, was exactly the type of environment he’d avoid, a veritable, bare-bones antithesis of the settings the florist usually preferred: fresh air, an easy atmosphere, and enough functionality to live out a 70s roller-skating fantasy when the mood struck ( as it so often did, of course. ) Nevertheless, he’d taken Milo up on the offer, yet intrigued by the man who seemed to take such quiet comfort in a cup of coffee and a casual chat.

“Man, you got me to trade a stoop for a Stairmaster,” Ziggy comments breathily as he hops off the aforementioned equipment, grinning slightly at his tentative friend when it occurs to him to ask: “Tell the truth — are you really gonna whip my ass into shape, or did you just know that I don’t go around meeting people without bringing them a present or two?”

. 

“Even fancier than I’m used to, to be honest with you.” She replies with a light chuckle. It’s not that she feels out of place or uncomfortable, but the level of celebrity present is not quite the peak Angelina hits. Not yet, at least, “But it’s beautiful. As always. The flowers too.” Though, she didn’t approach Ziggy to talk about flowers. She is mostly being nosey, truthfully. Liz certainly doesn’t tell her anything, so she already knew she was going to have to find out for herself what the deal was between her and Ziggy, “And you can call me Angelina, by the way.” She pauses, eyebrows rising a fraction, “Especially since you’re here as my daughter’s date, hm?” She decides not to press any further yet, wanting to see what he has to say first. 

—

When she offers the use of her first name, Zig can’t help but lightly recoil in immediate physical dismissal of the underlying suggestion as to why that was suddenly appropriate. His eyes drift away from the flowers and scan the room in search of the connective tissue between he and the mayor — naturally, to no avail. “Yeah, no, we’re not — I mean... I don’t wanna speak for...” A defeated, tight-lipped smile accompanies a brief silence. “We’re not together like that. We’re just...friendly friends.” Needing some small distraction, he picks a nonexistent piece of lint off his suit, before returning to her, “Honestly, Madame Mayor, I half-expected this to be the kind of shindig you’d have the whole family show up to all together, all at the same time. Sorta like...Kardashian-style. Bet the press would’ve called it, ‘Hanging with the Holbrooks.’” 

Dear God, he’s never hated hearing his own voice more than in this moment, but if continuing on with pleasantries is what kept the mayor at bay until her daughter returned to save him from this conversation — he’d take the blow to the ego and find some way of making Liz pay him back later on.

.

“I get that,” she began, “it used to be more that way for me when I did more of the dance stuff, rather than behind the scenes, but it still gets to me sometimes, I’ll admit.” Having someone like Ziggy around did provide a certain, deeply welcome, sense of security - one she attempted to not take for granted - but one she wasn’t so certain she could really do without. (Or rather, one she was rather positive she wouldn’t be able to do without). “The vibe is…something.” She still wasn’t positive if it was a good or bad something, but the word itself was neutral enough for her to feel comfort in its use. She followed his gesture with her gaze.

“It - yeah,” she shrugs. “I have at least found comfort in you - and others who are much like yourself - being here.” She mirrored his movement, the rims of their shot glasses humming in unison - twin-souled in a sort of way that adds an additional layer of comfort to what is already always constant around him.

“I do not intend to, this time, at least.” She bit her lip. “The noodles are always on offer, I suppose I just do not always make it explicitly so.” The remark is followed by a hum, “I mean, this is quite an event for the media, and he is very important in that world, so it is to be expected.” She shrugged, knowing his questions were more for the purpose of commenting rather than any he expected her to answer. There was a part of her that wished she could tell him it was all for show, and though there was a light sting that came with being left alone by a best friend, it was different (or so she imagined) than being left alone by a significant other.

“I know -I know.” She sighed, “but he does, he is just… popular. I have had women flirt with him right in front of me before, which is certainly something, but at least we know his ratings will not plummet anytime soon.” The remark is punctuated with a small giggle, and another shot of liquor.

As he placed his cheek on her head she can’t help but reach out to the other one and brush her fingers along it, feather-light, with a sigh of contentment. 

“I could be persuaded to go and find the kitchen, if you wished - or, if you are no longer needed, I could let Sebastían know I have to duck out early and we could do it in one of our kitchens.” She bit her lip, “cook - you know - though I would bet the kitchens here are magnificent. So say the word, and I will make something up for you.”

—

Every now and then, it’s easy for his mind to linger on the idea that souls had a finite number of matches — twin flames, he’d heard them called, had perhaps even experienced if he allowed himself to think so poetically on certain relationships of the past, platonic and otherwise. With Celeste, the idea’s cropped up more than once, a sort of kinship formed all too easily from the start of knowing each other, and further forged through the numerous revelations of shared experience and tugged heartstrings.

If there were any defenses he’d put up at the start of the evening, they’re now lowered considerably, due to both the copious amount of alcohol coursing through his system and the presence of his drinking partner. ( As to which he currently finds more intoxicating, he’s not yet sure, but there’s no doubt that one feeds into the other. ) To her remark about other women openly chasing after her beau, Ziggy counters, perhaps more confidently than he should, “Yeah, well... Last I heard, the Met’s at record attendance levels nowadays, due to some gents thirsting after some fine-ass choreographer — or something like that.”

In a timbre that doesn’t quite belong to him, some distant corner of his mind echoes, blame it on the alcohol — but a different, louder part counters that their friendship has always teetered this line, maybe even pushed towards it, as though there could be something beyond the surefire platonic love they held for each other. His head lifts suddenly, leading the rest of his body to turn to face Celeste properly now, though he can’t help but lean further into the soft touch of her fingertips. A hand steadies over hers to keep it in place, as he asks, not unlike a child, “You mean it?” There’s a grin, and his bright eyes are blown wide at the promise of a home-cooked meal and a private little escape from a night that had been a long series of anxiety-driven events. 

Gently, her hand is turned over in his much larger palm, then covered completely, fingers intertwined. Ziggy stands to his feet and tugs lightly at Celeste in unspoken, but clear, invitation to join him, and his head cants in the direction of the proposed location. “Come on, Zhao. Kitchens are that way. It’s about time we blow this popsicle stand and get our Biang Biang on, don’t you think?”

For Ziggy, the jury was still out on whether his presence actually mattered. Some in attendance, such as his friendly-or-not-friendly date, undoubtedly shared the belief that the night could ( and should ) be used for the promotion of far more than just the fashion of a wealth-expansive era. He agreed, and to that extent, he’d tried, largely to no avail — which brought him to the decidedly safe territory of flowers, studying a section of blossoms until his private little sanctuary was interrupted by the sudden presence of another.

“Mayor Holbrook,” he starts with a small smile, tepid and somewhat lacking in the humanist interest that was characteristic for him. “How’re you finding all...this?” A ring-adorned hand gestures vaguely to the room, the floral arch, the famed stairway, while ‘this,’ of course, refers to the amassment of wealth on display — some earned but more often than not stolen — paraded along the steps and in the museum itself. The question is one to which the answer can already be predicted, if Ziggy allowed the woman’s track record to speak as loud as words promised and left decidedly unfulfilled. He shifts, then offers weakly, “They got some great flowers.”

*MET GALA 2022 » ZIGGY HAWTHORNE, in attendance with Liz Holbrook.

For Ziggy, putting America at the center of fashion’s biggest night was enough to elicit a quirked brow and a questioning cant of the head. However, when the specific era of The Gilded Age was attached to the theme — an era which saw the few rise to the economic top by profiting off the labor of the many — the activist knew precisely the aesthetic he’d strive for with his look.

.

     Her hand shot towards his wrist immediately upon seeing the familiar shades of pink, yellow and green. “Shut up,” she said and didn’t mean it – she wanted to make sure her eyes didn’t deceive her. “I’m gonna need to borrow this someday.” Preferably when her assistance to a Holbrook family dinner was mandatory and her most scandalous outfits don’t make her mother’s hairs stick out. 

     A dry ha pushed past her lips as soon as he corrected his mistake, though she’d claim he wasn’t too far off the truth either. “Right up my alley.” Smoke, a poorly lit restroom, a close friend, a secret. If that didn’t inspire the most blocked artist, she didn’t know what would. “Terrific choice,” it’s not on purpose but her tone matched the most sofisticated attendees of the gala; as soon as Liz noticed, she made a face and started her strut towards the chosen location. The office. Wide, secluded, dark enough for the two of them, with a life-saving window to breathe out the smoke and, eventually, crawl out of if the situation called for such an escape. 

     Once inside, Liz immediately kicked off her shoes. She’d long ago given up on needle heels, and she’d normally survive a day walking on her boots, but she would save herself some aching on her toes – besides, Zig surely wouldn’t mind. Speaking of whom, Liz didn’t turn on the light; instead, she stoppe don her tracks and watched him in the glow of the faint light that poured in through the window. In her mind, she tracked all hues and shadows, in the hopes that she’d be able to recreate the scene later. Later couldn’t come soon enough, so she promptly looked over the large desk and grabbed a small piece of paper and a branded pencil. Only then did she finally walk up to him, cracked the window open. “I must have climbed out this office maybe… Four times,” she offered with a chuckle. “So you know, you’re dealing with an expert here if anyone comes looking for us.”

—

At her insistence to borrow the watch, his lips curve into a secret smile. True, it’s a silly little fashion statement that suggests a certain childlike quality, equal parts whimsical and innocently artless. But the truth is that it’s a token of memory, something to remind him that in another life, there’s a cute girl with a black-haired bob cheering him on and ready to punch out anyone who ever doubted him.

For the moment, all this is better left unsaid, and so he simply smiles at Liz in response, and when she leads, he follows. There’s a brief thought to take in his surroundings, to admire the magnificence of it all and comment on an opulence that’s distantly familiar in an uncomfortable sort of way ( cue the endless chorus of a life not lived, forever ago. ) Instead, he beelines to the window, and the city’s lights come through as though seen through a blurry film, hazy but present. The office’s atmosphere altogether is dimmed in comparison to the hustle inside Gotham Hall and the bustle immediately outside it, but more than this: Liz is an easy air around which to breathe, and his relief voices itself as a long, low exhale of a sigh.

Lost in the first real moment of relaxation he’s had all evening, Ziggy takes too long to crack open the window, and so the brunette does so for him — for them both, really, given the very reason they’ve entered the office. True to artistic form, another grand idea’s seemingly taken hold of her, as evidenced by her newfound paper and pencil. “Something tells me you’re not gonna let be escaping quite so easily,” he chuckles lightly, the corners of his smile marked by an unsure curiosity. Dark eyes drift from her well-practiced hand to her countenance, now illuminated quite prettily even in the yellow-grey haze of the outside world. There’s another short laugh when he realizes he’s looked at her for perhaps a little too long, and Zig pulls himself away to the fireplace. Jokingly, he explains, “Draw me like your French girls all you want, but you are not gonna immortalize how ashy I must look from that window light.” 

With that, the fireplace is lit, and before long, the end of the blunt is, as well. Under another circumstance, she would have been offered the first inhale, but his own artistic mind dictates that he’s in need of a little extra if he’s to be her subject tonight. “Coulda just told me you were in need of a new muse, you know. We could’ve...” The words he wants to say here fail, and instead he only offers, joint extended out to her, “I don’t know, gotten into some good trouble for the sake of art, like, way sooner.”

.

     “Then you’ve come to the right place.” Infamously the rebellios youth, Liz had been known to make a mental note of every way out of an event of the sort as soon as she stepped foot inside. Old habit died hard, and this one in particular had stuck – especially when her family was also in attendance. “That depends on how much trouble you’re willing to get in,” she offered him a complicit smile as she narrowed her eyes. If her memory didn’t fail her, she knew exactly what his plan was. If it got her off Angelina’s radar for a few minutes, she was willing to take the blame in case they got caught. What grander display of heroism could Zig possibly demand? 

     “Your best option is either the restroom off the Oak Room…” and then lower, she added, “or the office off the Mezzanine.” The following pun, however on the nose, made her chuckle and earned him a playful nudge on the arm. “You’re looking for trouble, mister.”

—

“How much?” He repeats with a laugh, grinning easily as he pulls up his jacket sleeve to reveal his watch. “If I’m not mistaken, the ol’ timepiece here says it’s time to add some chemical X into the sugar, spice, and everything...supposedly nice.” At that, his gaze lingers momentarily on his companion’s mother, the very image of a perfect politician soliciting the support of every potential donor in the room, regardless of affiliation or interests. When it comes to Angelina, they share a certain distaste by way of disappointment — and though there’s a roll of his eyes before he returns his gaze to his preferred Holbrook, Ziggy’s hesitant to bring it up now, when he’s played too-similar a role throughout the evening and has yet to compartmentalize his place in all of it.

At the mention of trouble, the activist’s grin grows into a silly, lopsided smirk. He’s not sure that he’d term himself ‘rebellious by nature,’ not to the extent that Liz could claim — but whenever the two found each other, his tendency to buck the status quo found itself heightened, as if eager not just to please, but to match. To that effect, his elbow reacts to her nudge in even, natural response, a comfortable rhythm settling between them before long. “If you’re only aiding and abetting for the sake of art, a smokin’ dude in a loo—” Immediately aware of the faux-pas, a hand gestures vaguely as if to erase it from the space between them, and he corrects, “Scratch that. A dude smokin’ in a loo should provide some inspo for you.” A small, bashful chuckle fills a beat. “Dealer’s choice says...office. I can’t think of a better escape from all this than lighting a fat joint off some old white dude’s fireplace, can you?” The eager glint in his eyes conveys, quite clearly: lead the way.

he knows what people think, he knows that not slot of people know about his history and why should they ? he believed in peoples goodness, it may seem hopeless but for some reason it’s the way that he was raised, that no matter how rotten a person may be, there was always a shot for redemption but in his new line of work, that testament he held so hard to was starting to falter. he takes a last of the drink, placing it on the tray as he nodded his head as a response for another one. ❝ and I am not judging you for thinking that way. I understand that anger the people of new york city have built up for the NYPD, we should take in the advice from that people of New York. ❞ 

he remembered that’s how he had met ziggy, there was something about him that called out to adonis. ❝ if you say so. ❞  he understood the image to withhold a family name, the real reason he was here was for his own family and them not being able to make it.  ❝ families are hard but the charming are a different type of family —— a few months back, I had just been offered the spot in the svu unit, my father and fallon’s father decided that a family dinner would be good.  fallon showed up, high as a fucking kite. I tried talking to her but Claudia, her mother came rushing in and said she just needed sleep, next thing I knew she was in some retreat and then she months later she’s here in new york doing great ——— look I’ve seen my share of addicts and maybe she’s better now but if I were you, I would keep a closer eye on her. ❞ 

—

Ziggy’s head nods in acknowledgement of the man’s acceptance of his own thinly-veiled criticism of the occupation the other so proudly held. It was certainly a better response than other members of the NYPD had given him in the past, and though there’s a whole history of reasons not to take it at face value — accompanied by his own skepticism-inducing experiences — the florist extends a hand for Adonis to shake in temporary truce. “I hope to see the force take up that position one day.” A small chuckle escapes him, the flash of teeth no longer the baring of aggression, but a genuine effort towards levity and sincerity in equal measure. “Sooner rather than later, preferably.”

The chuckle repeats at the mention of Fallon being ‘high as a fucking kite’ at a family dinner she likely had no interest in attending. Doubly humorous is the idea of a cop being overly critical of some weed, but the assumption of humor stops short at the mention of addicts. Before long, the even position at which he’d kept his body turns tense and concerned, and his brow furrows deeper with each passing word off the other man’s tongue. “Hang on — you think she has a problem?” Ziggy’s head shakes in disbeliefs, and an uneasy, half-attempted scoff fills the space between his first question and the next. “A serious one? I don’t know, man.”

Hands cross over his chest once more as a series of moments pass in rapid succession in his mind’s eye — specifically, the instances in which Fallon suddenly excused herself only to come back ten minutes later, grinning like a fool. “Alright. Say she might’ve flaked earlier in the evening when we first came through, and came back a little...spaced out. I mean, events like this are all sorts of anxiety-inducing. Maybe she just took an extra Xanax or something.” He shrugs, unconvinced by his own words as even more instances come to mind. “You got any more advice, Golden Boy?” With a tinge of defeat, he adds, “Sounds like you really do know her world better than I ever could.”

.

“I am trying,” she offered him a grin, “oh, absolutely, I mean,” she gestured towards the rest of the room, “I do not think we fit in so well with all these people who have suits that likely cost more than two months’ worth of my rent.” Another grin, “but you are right, that is absolutely part of why being here is so satisfying. I was talking with another friend - and we were saying how back in high school, even the thought of being someplace like this was just nearly impossible to imagine, and yet here we are.” She spotted the waiter at nearly the same time as Ziggy did, pleased that he had the same idea she’d had, and that soon enough there was a bottle of tequila in front of them and at least a half-dozen shot glasses. A certain part of her paused, wondering if Sebastían’s girlfriend, should be seen taking shots, but in another moment the thought has passed, because enough people here are too self-absorbed or drunk themselves to care.

“I think the dishes are not so certain if this grey stuff is delicious,” she raised an eyebrow at his remark. He was so easy to talk to - no matter what the occasion, he was someone she felt safe around, someone she knew had the same way of seeing the world as she did. Or even if not the exact same, a way similar enough that any differences were essentially negligible. He was both a friend and a home of sorts, if she permitted herself to think that way. Someone who she knew that she could be herself around - any of her selves, from the more professional to the activist to just Celeste, and he accepted each in turn. She also knew that his acceptance was all and entirely genuine, given without desire for anything in return. She liked to hope she could - did - offer the same for him. “I think I might dare to be offended that you would think I would make them anything other than extra spicy. Consider it done, soon as you wish. Just say the word.” 

His next words startled her out of her own thoughts (some of which included leaving the party and just cooking, more - though she wouldn’t leave the premises until it was time to do so, until she was sure nobody would bother Sebastían). “I understand - yes, nobody should have anyone, per say, but I am his girlfriend, so I suppose that entitles me to something, maybe?” Her eyes widened at his next remark - not because she didn’t entirely expect it, but because after finding out more about his London trip earlier, she found it harder to wave off the comment. Even if he was more than welcome to do anything with anyone else, nobody but the two of them really knew that. “I -” she bit her lip, “well, maybe - he did go to London with another woman for about a week hardly even a month after we started dating, and I am sure it was all business, that is what they both say, but…” she trailed off, “I mean, she is far more well-off and better suited to this sort of life than I am - I mean she seems to be here because she belongs, not because she is working for charities or is the girlfriend of a very rich and well-regarded news anchor.” She paused, “I mean, you gave a brilliant speech, you also belong here more than I do, right now, even if I have committed over half my life to working with kids.” Ever since she was a teenager. She looked over to her friend, “but I - well, he has said he is loyal and I am inclined to believe him. I should, as his girlfriend. Right?” It was too easy to be vulnerable with Ziggy, even if a part of her did feel incredible guilt at lying to him. He, more than most, deserved the truth. She took another shot glass and poured tequila into it, before taking it down and resting her head against her friend’s shoulder. “Thank you for being here.” She sighed into his shirt. “It means a lot.”

—

It wasn’t exactly rare for Ziggy to find himself in the company of those who saw the world through a similar lens as him — like tended towards like, after all. But in this moment, surrounded by so many whose beliefs only extended as far as a corporation’s checkbook would allow, Celeste is more than just a breath of fresh air. she’s the adrenaline rush that accompanies validation, the thrill of being seen and heard without the prerequisite of a spotlight or a speech. 

He settles even further into the comfort of the moment as he confesses, “When I get nervous, I just lose my appetite completely. It fixes itself after a few hours or so, once the nerve-wracking thing is done and over with, but... I mean, tonight — it wasn’t just the speech, but the people, the pressure, the whole...vibe.” His hands gesture vaguely in reference to the space around them before returning to the shot glass, index finger spinning around the rim in an attempt to get a pitch to sound. It’s a placeholder of an action, an absentminded effort to hide the fact that certain other thoughts still plagued his mind instead of the happy all too lovely idea of a home-cooked meal crafted in the kitchen of one of his closest friends.

Thankfully, she offers a distraction of her own in addition to plenty food for thought as her head rests on the broad of his shoulder. “Damn, Cel,” he starts after a moment longer, musing over the lip of his glass. “You really know how to torture a guy, huh?” There’s a soft chuckle, followed by the clarification, “First it’s the promise of some Biang Biang and then you tell me Mr. CNN ain’t even paying attention to you?” Dark eyes fix on the brunette then, as if in search of some point of clarity that everyone else but him found perfectly visible. “I don’t wanna tell you what’s going right or wrong within your relationship...” 

The words are delivered with a slight shake of his head, and the betrayal of his physicality in the moment is only a precursor to the subsequent, “but someone who abandons you for half the evening despite knowing how you feel in situations like these? Especially when he’s a veteran at these shindigs and knows exactly how to navigate them?” The questions, mostly rhetorical, devolve into a sigh, and Ziggy throws his hands up in self-acknowledged defeat. “I just think you shouldn’t have to question whether or not you can trust someone you love, or someone who claims to love you.” 

Gently, he rests his cheek atop her head, tempted to press a kiss to the crown of it just as he would in any other intimate connection, no matter the context. Despite lingering there, the man holds back for reasons he can’t quite define. Alcohol and adrenaline each brought on their own hasty tendency towards sloppy decision-making, this much he knows — so perhaps it’s only natural that the desire remains contained, and the sweetness of the moment simply perseveres on. “Listen, if you don’t feel like you belong here as an activist, or an artist, or a citizen, or — hell, even a drinking buddy...” He clinks another shot against hers and downs it, before asking, “How about as a chef? Grey stuff and bar peanuts just don’t hold the same appeal after you whet my appetite with the promise of some noods.”

baby steps for Fallon was imply knowing how to impress a crowd full of people, a prodigy at a very young age, mesmerizing her parents peers knowing that she always needed five steps ahead of everyone else. to the circle of people she was the perfect daughter, never making mistakes and being just as poised as she was meant to be ; don’t let them in &. don’t let them think that they knew who she was. the fire burning deep within fallon charming always being put out.  

she needed some support, showing up to these events was depressing enough but having someone on her arm that she felt at ese with, certainly helped her navigate her way through the sea of people who were a little too interested. ❝ what can’t I say, I don’t disappoint mr. hawthorne ❞  she adds on with a simple smile on crimson petals. ❝ don’t worry, you’ve got this. to be honest, I prefer your sincerity over my feigned one. ❞ of course all Fallon had to do was smile and look pretty, it was her role. 

walking through the sea of people, there was a couple of watchful eyes. her eyes set on one of her fathers oldest friends ❝ ignacio, what a pleasure to see you again. ❞  a kiss on both go hey cheeks and her compliments on how much she had grown, turning to ziggy she smiles ❝ this is mr. hawthorne, a very good friend of mines and a beautiful brain that I know you would just LOVE to pick at . if there is anyone you should throw you money at Ignacio, it’s definitely him. ❞  the man pondered and nodded his head ❝  but sadly I have other people who do want to take a pick at it, so I’ll definitely come around —— if I have time. now if you’ll excuse us . ❞  she placed her hand on his shoulder giving him a light squeeze and placing a kiss on his cheek ❝ see you around. ❞ 

as she walks away with ziggy she turns to him before he can say anything. ❝ don’t worry, you’ll have a blank check by the end of the night by him ——- ignacio is a man who loves to invest and luckily for you, he’s the only one who truly had my respect. ❞ Ignacio was the only friend of her parents that actually cared about making a difference, he was the first person who got her interested in giving back, even if back then she didn’t see the importance of it. 

—

“You certainly do not, Little Miss Blue Fairy,” Ziggy grins in affirmation, admiring her outfit for a moment. The beauty of a friendship like theirs was that, without even trying, without force or any underhanded means, it naturally proved mutually beneficial. For Fallon, she’d long said that he provided her a calming presence of some kind, and whether that was aided through herbal relief or puns that even a proper father would roll his eyes at, Ziggy, ever one to want to be of assistance, was grateful to be the occasional source of a true smile upon the girl’s lovely features. As they start off into the crowd, he offers, “Hey, I’ll take a pity laugh over one of my puns to absolute silence, you know that.”

Ziggy, with just the mere mention of Fallon’s family name, gained access into spaces he’d once sworn off, forcibly by his own actions and on the account of another’s; it was a facet of their friendship he didn’t like to use terribly often, but in this room, with these people — momentarily hiding behind the Charming name was as safe a bet as any other until he found steady footing of his own. The redhead greets a man Zig’s certain is placed rather high on Forbes’ list of the country’s top philanthropists, and he’s momentarily star-struck, simply in awe at the fact that his first foray into soliciting donations is with someone as notable ( and wealthy ) as Ignacio. There’s a quick exchange of business cards and a nervous laugh before they’re off and circling the room again.

It’s an almost too-fast turn of events, and his head is left spinning from the interaction. His work, though notable, had largely been based in grassroots activism, which meant donations came in irrefutably small numbers, and only amounted to something of note after longer periods of time — not at all the instantaneous kind of support that a man like Ignacio could provide. As though it’s a great secret, he whispers excitedly to Fallon, “Man gave me his business card within...thirty seconds. Not even a minute! I didn’t have to make a pitch or anything.” His face is beaming, though it falters slightly at the ensuing feelings of worthiness, or the lack thereof. “Honestly, Fal — This is wild. Like, this is enough to get a man’s head so high up in the clouds, he doesn’t know how to come back down.” An uncertain laugh, a slight shrug. “You’re on the lookout tonight, right? We should find something for you, too.”

he was for the people or at least he liked to think that he was, he had seen both sides of the most horrid things and he believed he did what was right, even if it got him in rough waters sometimes. sometimes he spoke without thinking of the consequences and yet here he was indulging in a conversation that was turning left quickly ❝ just because I have the blue shield to back me up it’s not always the case, whether you believe it or not I fight for people, I do it everyday. I’m not concerned about the drug deals or even the circling biased corruption this city has ——- my goal will forever be protecting the people that can’t protect themselves. ❞

 there was very few people that remembered that carringtons downfall when aria vanished and there was still sympathetic looks he would get here and there. ❝ and as for fallon, I believe if she would have been raised differently, she could have been different. I was blessed with parents who allowed me to make mistakes and learned from them, the charmings don’t believe in that but I’m sure you know that already. ❞

—

His jaw sets square, and thick brows furrow around narrowed eyes. Ziggy’s not normally the type to look for a fight, but something about the hero-worship contained inside the hall after the governor’s announcement, the immediate praise that’s heaped onto New York’s supposed finest as though a single act alone is absolution enough — he’s itching for something, and it certainly isn’t any more of the NYPD’s golden-boy act.

“Yeah, well... In my experience, sometimes it’s that very shield that people seek protection from,” he states evenly, arms are still crossed over his chest, unrelenting. There’s a short laugh at the mention of drugs, and the notion to take out the blunt in his pocket to put the man’s words to the test crosses his mind for the briefest of moments, before immediately being dismissed under the weight of, well, history. Ziggy’s stance only tenses further as he listens to the man’s take on Fallon and her family. “I think my friend’s just fine the way she is,” he insists, unsure as to what exactly the other was alluding. “Is there... Is there something I should be worried about, Detective?”

     event: gotham hall fundraiser gala      with: open!!

     The setting was hardly a new one for Liz – wealthy people pretending to care about the less fortunate, she’d seen it time and time again growing up at the endless line of events she was forced to attend. Granted, she was at this fundraiser voluntarily. At least, as voluntarily as it could be for someone who needed to secure some friends with money. She wouldn’t lie and say her last name hadn’t opened plenty of doors in the past, but she was trying to make a name for herself in her industry now and being questioned about her mother’s next move was only holding her back. So, instead, she started introducing herself with her first name only. Liz. Like Cher or Rihanna, no last name necessary. 

     From the comfort of leaning against a wall in the Lounge, Liz met Johnnie Walker. She looked into her glass before taking a sip and savouring the liquor momentarily. She was about to dive back in when the relief of seeing a familiar face washed all over her. “Thank God,” she breahted out, approaching them. “I count at least three ways to sneak out.” Old habits die hard. “Are you donating?”

—

There’s a joint in his pocket left miserably untouched, burning a hole through the cloth for the simple fact that it’s not burning in any capacity, and hasn’t been whatsoever over the course of the evening. The joint ( affectionately named Harry, for obvious potterhead reasons ) was brought along as a proactive failsafe should his speech have taken a steep downturn and be met with boos rather than thunderous applause — but now, with the sudden shift in the atmosphere ( re: a pride only the golden boys of the NYPD could display with such a distinct, arrogant lack of humility ), Ziggy wants little more than to come down from it all by getting high.

Something like that, anyway. So, when Alicia’s familiar face approaches him with a glint of mischief in her eye and the mention of escape on her lips, he can’t help but respond with an impish grin of his own. “You got three? Good, because I need the quickest way to a quiet spot away from all this — and preferably with a window.” The wide smile that lights up his features is a dead giveaway to the pun about to leave his lips, but he leans in to whisper nevertheless, conspiratorial and inviting, “Not to be blunt or anything.”

.

“Oh no fair that you got to that joke first,” she grinned at him, “yes, it’s quite fortunate for them to bestow such a service on us. At least I can hope that it’ll entice some of this folks,” she motioned with her eyes around the room, “to make good on their word and actually donate to the many causes on display tonight.” She took a sip of her drink. “Okay, but seriously, if I can do anything, please let me know.” Her expression serious for only a moment. “But yes - make them make good on all their promises.” And in turn with him, she took another sip of her drink, soothing any would-be nerves from being so on display once again. Never something she’d regret (after all, seeing Seb feel a sense of relief, feel him not be so tense, and the fact that she’d been able to cook a beautiful meal for him before the gala, meant the world to her), but still not something she was at all used to. She wondered how long it would take - even though her creations had been put on display for thousands, she was always behind the scenes.

People, like both Ziggy and Sebastían, albeit in very different ways, were much more suited for being out, in the open, both with magnetic qualities to them that made her glad to call each of them a friend. “My fella?” She giggled at his question, “he’s off schmoozing any number of important people, last I checked.” She held up her phone, “he’s texted me every now and again - he’s both beneficial as a donor and as a member of the press here, so everyone wants a piece of him.” She grinned. “He let me make him dinner before we came, though, because you never know what sort of weird too-fancy and yet bland sorts of food will be served at places like this.” She grinned, though half of it was soft, with a sort of faraway wistful look that she only hoped showed that she was truly enamored with Sebastían. “Which reminds me, I need to make you some Biang Biang noodles sometime again, alright?” 

—

“Come on, you already know you’re doing enough just by being here, representing for the arts and for the kiddos and everything you are and... I know it’s over-said, but — well, let’s just say that we both know events like these didn’t always have people who look like us sipping their fancy-ass drinks.” It’s not eloquent by any means; a tad too much sipping has taken place for that to still occur, and simultaneously not enough to return to his usual semi-elegant rhetoric, which prompts the florist to signal a passing waiter for their tray, complete with a bottle of tequila and empty shot glasses. 

It’s a bold action, but one that he’s nonetheless thankful for committing to as Celeste begins chattering about her beau. One sip, then another, and one more, fills in the spaces of her explanation where he likely should have interjected some comment or query — but she looks too happy to question, and it was only fair for the trust she extended to him as her friend to be returned to her in kind. “Oh, so you’re not a fan of trying the grey stuff at fancy little shindigs like these?” He laughs over the sugar-coated rim of the shot glass, before adding with a grin, “Yeah, that’s looking like it might need to happen sooner than later, Cel. And extra spicy, if you’re so inclined.” The reason that’s conveniently left out, smoothed over by an easy humor and reference the woman would undoubtedly grasp onto, is the fact that Ziggy Hawthorne ( notoriously a man with the appetite of a wolf ) always lost interest in food in the hours leading up to a big event — tonight, most especially.

The thought is downed by the remainder of the shot, eyes squeezed shut to accommodate the burn and ensuing head-spin of harsh liquor against an empty stomach. When his sight finds light again, his gaze happens to be met with the sight of her beau, off in the distance. The doubts he entertained just moments earlier resound in his mind louder than ever — but now, there’s more liquor in his system, which unfailingly means the existence of a far looser tongue. Ziggy swallows, not quite sure how to phrase his concern and, truthfully, unable to shape it into something pretty and unassuming, and so, the words tumble out unfiltered, but wholly meant: “Everyone wants a piece of him, but you’re the one who should get to have all of him, right? I mean — not that anyone should have anyone, but...” A beat to allow his eyes to refocus on his friend. His countenance softens then, and he hopes it’s enough to communicate concern as he offers, “I guess I’m just worried that — if the rumors are true and stuff... that maybe he might...want a piece of every other girl, too?”

he shakes his head as he hears ziggy speak ❛ have you always been one for the dramatics . ❜ there weren’t a lot of connections that adonis had but the one before him was certainly someone he enjoyed the company of. leaning on one of the pillars he hears ziggys response on fallon and he shakes his head. ❛ hey no judging here —— I’ve known Fallon for a while and this is surely her scene. ❜ they had a few conversations here and there but none of them that would see past the stone wall that was fallon charming. ❛ I wasn’t sure it was yours. ❜ he didn’t mean no harm with his words,l it’s not what he said but how he said it.  ❛ but I won’t mention it again, how’s everything ? ❜ 

—

“Dramatics get shit done,” he answers feebly, the first word here synonymous with carefully-planned protests and citizen-oriented action. Events like those were the capacity in which they knew each other, after all; Ziggy himself had stood just outside of the officer’s precinct, bullhorn in hand, demanding change as golden-boy cops like Adonis carried on their duties in the supposed interest of the ‘good people of this great city.’ He shrugs at the memory, but doesn’t back down from the same feeling of steadfast resilience as he carried then, renewed in response to the other’s words now. “No, no — I wanna hear you out on why that is,” he invites, arms folding across his chest. “Let me guess, it’s because I haven’t got the deep pockets of the NYPD funding my every move.” A laugh, uncharacteristically cold. “You ask how things are, when you know just as well as me — Same shit, different day.”

-

She was a girl swallowed whole by a monster  &   spit back in pieces ,      but he’s always looked at her and seen something whole  .     It’s hard to resist the temptation of falling back into that role ,   of clinging to the skin of a girl whose life had yet to be swept by a wreckage .     When she looks up ,   fawn-eyed and grinning coyly ,    all she sees is the bright spark in his eyes and her reflection staring back ,     untarnished  .   If she had just one wish ,   she’d want to be that girl :   the girl he sees  ,     the one who’d yet to be chewed up by this world’s hungry teeth .    “     That’s a very bold promise for someone who witnessed me drunk .    Chasing him around with frosting .    ”      she teases ,   bobbing her head along with the thought .

Laura had never been any good at   cloaking    her emotions  —–   not the ones that matter :      her smile tugs at the narrow corners of her eyes ,   and she almost forgets ,   for a second ,   what she was .    “   No …    It’s nothing ,   it’s silly —  “     she pushes an open palm against Ziggy’s broad shoulder .    “   Stop distracting me and let me congratulate you on your amazing speech !   You were …      perfect up there .   ”

—

The grin that brightens his features is an even match for the one she gives him, formed not just because he’s someone who’s got a kilowatt smile readily available the second he senses he’s in presence of another soul in need of one — but because there’s a distinct relief that comes along with seeing that his friend is, against all odds, fine. Her hand collides with his shoulder and he catches it before she has the chance to return it to her side, and brings them into a push-pull pseudo-dance.

“Silly’s what I do best, Laurie,” he replies, tone and countenance affectedly serious before collapsing into laughter. It’s easy to feel light around her, to forget about the pressures of the room and simply bask in the presence of a friend who he held up as nothing less than a remarkably resilient flower. “Yeah, I’m just glad it’s done and over with now. Means the rest of the evening can be devoted to tearing it up on the dance floor.” His hand still hasn’t released hers ( though it would, of course, at the first hint of her hesitation ) and although the invitation of ‘Come on, let’s go have some fun’ is clear — Ziggy asks, perhaps only because he’s forever worried of scaring her off and being the source of that distance between them again, “What’s the plan, Delgado?”