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.”
“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.”
