If it wasn't for the propriety of the banquet and mandatory attendance to it, and it not being possible to move up his flight back to Detroit, or anywhere else in the world, anywhere else, to any minute now, he'd rather have stayed in his hotel room. Under his blankets. And his pillow. All of them scrunched hard into his face. All night. Until he could drag his suitcase and whatever was left of his season, and his life, behind him, wherever they went next.
Except it wasn't wherever. It was the Japanese National Championships. It might as well have been a death sentence now. That's what it really was.
Celestino has said no. Celestino has said he had to be here. In his suit.
So, he was.
Here. In his suit.
In a room of people he hadn't been able to figure out how to speak to before, when he'd been a contemporary and proving his was able to hold his own against them, the pride and hopes of his whole country resting on his shoulders. Before --
Before what had happened. Before all he could convince himself to do was watch the crowd, the swirling dancers, unable to move, except to keep taking a champagne glass from each waiter who walked by offering one. He knew where the other skaters were. Watched them in the room. Lost Celestino at some point. Somewhere. He never drank during a season.
But the reasons why didn't matter as he downed the newest countless one, starting to realize that champagne glasses themselves were actually far too small.
no subject
If it wasn't for the propriety of the banquet and mandatory attendance to it, and it not being possible to move up his flight back to Detroit, or anywhere else in the world, anywhere else, to any minute now, he'd rather have stayed in his hotel room. Under his blankets. And his pillow. All of them scrunched hard into his face. All night. Until he could drag his suitcase and whatever was left of his season, and his life, behind him, wherever they went next.
Except it wasn't wherever. It was the Japanese National Championships.
It might as well have been a death sentence now. That's what it really was.
Celestino has said no. Celestino has said he had to be here. In his suit.
So, he was.
Here. In his suit.
In a room of people he hadn't been able to figure out how to speak to before, when he'd been a contemporary and proving his was able to hold his own against them, the pride and hopes of his whole country resting on his shoulders. Before --
Before what had happened. Before all he could convince himself to do was watch the crowd, the swirling dancers, unable to move, except to keep taking a champagne glass from each waiter who walked by offering one. He knew where the other skaters were. Watched them in the room. Lost Celestino at some point. Somewhere. He never drank during a season.
But the reasons why didn't matter as he downed the newest countless one,
starting to realize that champagne glasses themselves were actually far too small.