IMOG Figure Skating Spectator Thread open

It was a rare occasion for his father, Salvatore Vincenti, to allow him a wholly unsupervised outing. Under ordinary circumstances, so Lorenzo could well imagine, he would have been trailed by no fewer than two or three adults. Each prepared to judge every angle of his spine as insufficiently upright. Yet in the course of a school-sanctioned ‘cultural exchange opportunity’, the notion of Lorenzo enduring the Siberian cold seemed to please his father. It might have been a hymn to creativity. A song of praise to future freedoms, or perhaps simply a comfortably emotional reprieve, far from the bunk-bed hell of a Ravenclaw Tower. Perhaps all of it at once, if not for a certain coincidence. For it was exactly that, which set its foot upon the ice just as Lorenzo had begun admiring the red hair of a girl. It was none other than Camille De Varenne.
Lorenzo’s shoulders dared to sink beneath his thick coat. The face that only moments before had been at ease twisted until a puzzled frown clung stubbornly to his brow. It was entirely impossible not to fix his gaze upon his bunkmate, for, as always, Camille carried that effortless self-possession in motion. The young Italian lost posture, moving deeper into his chair. Even the warmth of the nearby fire could not distract him. At the sight of romance unfolding upon the ice, Lorenzo’s fingers slipped into his dark sleeves. Irritably he rubbed his left thumb against the soft lining, only to cast his gaze from Camille to the girl’s gleaming dress and back. Love seemed to Lorenzo as though it hung in the air the same way snowflakes and bubbles began to join the show. It drifted down upon the two of them as naturally as every stone belongs to Brunelleschi’s dome. So very natural in fact, that it stands firm despite all the world’s contrary theses.
Lorenzo swallowed. For a moment his dry throat burned at the softening lines upon the Frenche‘s face. He slowly pressed his fingernail deeper into the fabric. They seemed to be flying across the ice, but unfortunately Camille did not fly onto his face. His neck, too, remained unscathed. Nor was the pretty girl in his arms be granted an early sleep in her grave. Even though for her closeness to Camille, she rather deserved it.

All at once, something seemed to stir at the corner of Lorenzo’s eye. The locked jaw and the stern blue gaze loosened for a moment from the ice. They wandered across the fire that danced idly nearby. The snow lay as it always did, and the other spectators had not stirred with any unusual restlessness as well. No newcomer had arrived. No one had stepped within his reach. Nor had anyone gathered near him readily preparing criticism. For a moment confusion threatened to settle in — only to be replaced by the awkward realisation that he must have imagined it. Nothing had moved, thus
Lorenzo exhaled softly. The warm breath dissolved into a small white cloud as he turned his head back toward the pair. The hardness was already preparing to return to his eyes, lying poised beneath the lashes and ready to fall once more into that irritated stare.
When the sight made him falter; the colours personally betrayed him.
As though the young Ravenclaw had missed some great milestone in Camille’s romantic life, a startled sound escaped him. Where moments before there had been green, red now stared back at him. Camille’s surely deliberate assault to Lorenzo‘s senses was followed by yet another display.
They leapt. A perfectly synchronised jump.
Lorenzo held his breath. His lips pressed tightly together, bracing for impact. Before he quite noticed, he found himself wishing it would succeed. For once, no Grim Reaper should wait for Camille. The wish for misfortune came undone. Perhaps that very realisation was what sent the shiver along his spine. The softer lines of his face slipped away. Lorenzo‘s fingers shot from his sleeves. The cold air seemed just as bewildered as he felt. Suddenly, he had seen enough. After the few performances, none of students Lorenzo could recognise, it was his bunkmate who had stolen his mood. The irritation pressed its cold hands into Lorenzo’s cheeks. With the tip of his nose reddened, he set the feet bundled in winter shoes upon the floor and rose. It was time to leave.