✿ DAYDREAM / BELIEVER.

ahclbrook​:

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?”

ahclbrook​:

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.

celestezhao​:

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.

lizholbrook​:

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.”

lizholbrook​:

“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.

adoniscxrrington​:

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.”

celestezhao​:

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.”

fcllonchrming​:

“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.”

adoniscxrrington​:

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?”

lizholbrook​:

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.”

celestezhao​:

“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?”

adoniscxrrington​:

“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.”

girlgcne​:

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?”