You are a hardworking young actor that catches a big break, resulting in you attending your first big awards show. Among the famous faces you see that night: Tom Hiddleston. You only ever intended to admire him from afar, but he has different plans...
Previously in YOJA: The end of the year was spectacularly memorable, but in ways he hadn't planned. Thanksgiving was - well, a mess. And rather than leveling out in the days and then weeks that followed, things seemed to spiral further. The New Year held promise. A fresh start. Except his night out dancing was interrupted in the most unexpected way. A frantic call from Ben. Ben who had invited them all to a party - one that Tom had voluntarily declined in favor of other friends, and starting the year anew. Being off the market was so last year. Dating. Thinking of marriage. Starting a life with... with someone he'll see in a few days' time, for the first time since The Worst Holiday he's ever experienced.
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To his mind the room is but half dressed. They've gotten started with the draping and décor but are nowhere near the end result. It'll steal away breath when they're done, and when properly lit. At the moment the entirety of the room is fully illuminated, and most of those within it bustling about, racing to beat the deadline. In a few days' time it'll be drastically different, though the pacing oddly similar.
Attire, certainly, will be a noticeable difference. No jeans and jumpers. Tuxes and evening gowns as far as the eye can see. Many of those currently scurrying around will be entirely hidden from view, back to their behind the scenes work. The stage will be set, the lighting and sound perfected to be just so – and the production team alternatively blurting out orders or praying that their drills, their efforts in the days prior to the big night weren't in vain. No mishaps. No wardrobe malfunctions or sound blackouts bringing the program to a temporary halt, everyone ultimately keeping to their allotted time, though all involved knowing that the show will inevitably run long.
His own role is easy enough. Wait here. Step onto the stage there. Walk to the mark just there, and though there'll be a teleprompter he won't really need to read the words. He'll know them, by then. He just needs to deliver his short speech and keep his attention forward, on the designated camera. Anywhere, anything but allowing his focus to drift to the table that seems to be centered at his designated podium.
He hadn't spotted it right out. It was only after being asked to stand at the podium for a moment so they could make adjustments that he let his gaze drop from the teleprompter to study the assigned seating at the tables closest to him. But there she sits – or, at least – there she will sit, a few nights hence.
Tom tries to lift his eyes away from her chair, away from her table again, tries to settle his focus on the teleprompter until he is asked to continue, but with little success. If he similarly fails on the night of the show he'll undoubtedly hone in on her. When faced with the real thing? Now he's only caught staring at her likeness upon a page.
Her chair is off to the right of the table. His eyes flit quickly around it's circumference, counting the chairs, trying to make a game of it. Maybe if he distracts himself with other things. Maths. If he can just keep his brain occupied elsewhere. But no. He can't make a pleasant blur of the room. He swallows, a little miserable that his heart seems to stutter through its practiced rhythm from simple proximity to a photograph of her.
