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Oscar huffs, fidgeting with bow tie around his neck. He feels like the thing is trying asphyxiate him, and tries to loosen it a little, only to pull it tautly and the effect is the opposite of what he was aiming for.
He quits his efforts to make the bow tie comfortable, in vain, and instead his hands find solace in brown locks, ruffling them as he runs his fingers against his hair repeatedly for the sake of doing something, incessantly put out by the suffocating atmosphere that the room exhibits.
He's aware that such events, especially organized by the FIA are pretentious to the extreme and filled with sponsors, absolute and potential, and his attempts at polite conversation, that are dreadfully dull, each one the same, full of meaningless small talk, have begun to wear him out.
The event has only just begun, and Oscar feels socially depleted already, and there's a yearning to go home and make himself comfortable in his bed with as many pillows that society would deem abnormal for one, singular man to own.
There's also a lingering sense of unease that buzzes under his skin, charging all over his body as he feels incredibly out of place amongst the people who are all too eager to mingle about.
It's not that Oscar hates these events, it's just, well, he'd rather have this time wasted away on mindless chatter properly exerted over something much more worthwhile, that being a nap for him, but the gist is, he thinks these galas are a waste of time.
