Chapter Text
It’s cold as shit in Merano.
Freddie’s not the most accurate judge of temperatures anymore — he runs almost perpetually cold nowadays — but even he can tell it’s chiller than normal. The sidewalks are slick with slush, and the sky is a dull gray with the constant threat of snow. He’s lost his balance at least five times, and his cane isn’t doing much to help matters. Beside him, Florence’s hands are shoved deep in the pockets of her rainjacket, and she’s shivering like she regrets not bringing a heavier layer. Freddie has no idea why they decided to walk to the opening ceremony.
“I thought it was supposed to be nice here,” Freddie complains, kicking at a chunk of ice.
Florence hums noncommittally. “Yes, well.”
“The video on the plane lied to me. It said the temperature was ‘always perfect.’ Is this always perfect to Italians?”
“You didn’t seriously believe anything they were saying in that, were you?”
“I drank in every word unquestioningly.” Freddie rolls his eyes. “Come on, Flo. Would it kill you to lighten up a bit?”
Maybe ‘kill you’ isn’t the right phrase, because Florence just flinches and shoves her hands further in her pockets. “I can take a joke,” she says, not meeting his eyes. “I just—”
“You’re nervous, I know. You’ve only told me half a dozen times. But trust me — it’s going to be fine . I go in there, I kick the Communist’s ass, we get money, and we’re back home within the week. It’s not like I haven’t done any of this before.”
“It’s different from before, though.” Florence’s hands have gone from her pockets to her necklace, twisting the thin silver chain around her fingers. “It’s the first match since—”
“I know.” It’s been on Freddie’s mind too. He doesn’t want to hear her say it. “That doesn’t change anything, though, does it? My brain’s still in perfectly fine condition.”
Florence snorts.
“Well— the part of my brain that plays chess, at least. Jesus.”
“That’s not the part I’m worried about. You play as well as you ever have—”
“Aw, thanks—”
“But this is really your first time under this much pressure and media attention in a while, and I don’t want you to… do something stupid.”
“What, you think I’m going to reveal I’m a freak-of-nature medical anomaly on national television?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Ah, but you were thinking it.”
“I wasn’t!” Florence is pulling so tightly on her necklace it’s starting to leave marks. “Jesus, how can you be so callous about this?”
“I don't know, maybe because it doesn't matter? I've been perfectly fine for three years. Just because we're at a competition doesn't mean I'm going to suddenly start falling apart.”
“You might.”
“Wow. Such confidence in me.“
“I don't know anything for certain.” More to herself than to Freddie. “This” — she gestures at Freddie — “is a completely unknown variable.”
“It's not like I'm irreversibly changed—”
“You could be! We don't know, because you keep refusing to let anyone look at you—”
“You think I want some freak in a white coat studying my body like it's a science fair project?” This is an old argument. He doesn't seriously think he's going to change her mind on this — he's just biting back for the sake of it, now.
“One blood test, Freddie. One appointment! Hell, just telling another person would be enough—”
“Oh, yeah, let me just tell one of my many dozens of friends—”
“That's not what I meant, and you know it—”
”I'm sure my old college roommate would be thrilled to hear it. Hey, man, I know we haven't spoken in a while, but guess what? I'm a fucking reanimated corpse now— ”
“Jesus Christ!” Florence throws her hands up in frustration. Both their voices are raised now, causing some pedestrians to stare. Great. Just what they need is for this argument to be all over the tabloids tomorrow. “I don't know why I even bother with you. God.” She stalks off down the street, leaving Freddie to chase after her.
He's so tired of this. They both are.
After a few minutes of walking in silence, Florence speaks again, her voice much calmer. “Just… be careful, okay? You’re not invincible. And you know how the stress can get to you.”
She’s right. Of course she’s right. Freddie sometimes suspects that Florence understands him better than she understands herself. “Yeah. I know. I will.”
Florence relaxes slightly. “Thank you.” Another beat of silence. “And I'm sorry. For yelling.”
“Me too,” Freddie says, not because he is, but because that's just what he's supposed to say here. He doesn't want to stay mad at Flo. Even if she's overly paranoid about something that's not even her problem. Even if she's held him at an arm's length since the accident, like it actually changed him somehow. She's still his second.
“I'll be fine, though,” Freddie says, trying for a joke. He gives Florence a light punch on the shoulder. “I mean, what am I gonna do, die twice?”
—
The television in the hotel room is on. No one is watching it.
Anatoly is hunched over his travel chessboard, a transcript of the American’s previous games on the table beside him. He’s studying the American’s strategy, or something. Svetlana doesn’t care. The match hasn’t even started, and she is already so, so, tired of chess.
Leonid is sitting across from Anatoly, staring at the chessboard almost just as intently. Anatoly had called him in so they could practice, but as far as Svetlana can tell, they haven’t actually played a game together yet. Leonid just watches Anatoly shuffle pieces around, occasionally muttering something about castling or the placement of his kings. If Anatoly hears what he’s saying, he doesn’t respond.
Svetlana is reading. She feels exceptionally useless.
“He’s impossible,” Anatoly announces emphatically, the chessboard wobbling slightly as he slouches down on the bed. “What game does he think he is playing? Because it certainly is not chess.”
Leonid giggles. Svetlana gives in and looks over at the chessboard, in hopes of understanding what Anatoly is talking about, but she doesn’t see anything other than a strange position involving some knights and the black king. “It looks like he’s winning, though,” she offers.
“That’s exactly the problem! He makes the most — asinine moves, and then ten moves later, he’s suddenly won the game! How am I supposed to prepare for something like that?”
“You could take a break,” Svetlana suggests. “You’ve been playing for almost two hours.”
Anatoly, predictably, waves her off. “No. The first match is this afternoon, and I still haven’t worked out how to get out of this position.”
“All the more reason to give yourself some time to rest.” Svetlana hopes she doesn’t sound too pleading. “Come on, Tolya. You haven’t done anything except play since we got here. You’ve got to be tired of it.”
“I can’t be tired of it. Not until I win.” Anatoly gives her what she’s sure he thinks is a sympathetic smile. “I know you don’t understand it. But this is important, alright?”
Svetlana’s face flushes. She knows it’s important. It’s practically all she’s heard since Anatoly began playing — how important the matches are, how significant Anatoly’s skill is. She isn’t stupid. She understands just how big it could be for them if they win. But resting is just as important, isn’t it? Surely another hour of practice won’t be the deciding factor in whether Anatoly wins or loses.
But Anatoly’s already turned back to his chessboard, making it clear that he doesn’t care about what Svetlana has to say in the matter.
She wonders if there was ever a time where he did.
It’s fine! Really. It’s fine. She’s not here to manage Anatoly’s chess career. (What she is here for, she’s not exactly sure, but that’s beside the point.) If he wants to lock himself in his hotel room and do nothing but play, who is she to suggest otherwise?
The television is running some kind of report on the American player. Svetlana can’t imagine they’ll tell her anything she doesn’t already know. He’s essentially all she’s been hearing about for a month. Every night at the dinner table it’s the same story — you won’t believe the way Trumper plays, Sveta, he’s a lunatic, did you catch the news story about him the other day? He beat a grandmaster in just seven moves. Seven moves, Sveta! What if he does the same thing to me?
If you’re so obsessed with the American, why don’t you marry him instead, Svetlana had snapped back on one particularly tiring night, and almost immediately regretted it. As tired as she was (still is) of Anatoly ignoring her in favor of the game, their marriage has not been one of love for a long time. It might have been, once. But they’ve grown more distant over the years, spending night after night sleeping with their backs turned to each other before they finally bought separate beds; hardly speaking outside of what-do-you-want-for-dinner s and can-you-clean-the-living-room-please s. By the time Anatoly started coming home late, reeking of alcohol and cologne, Svetlana found it easier to simply turn a blind eye rather than confront him.
Still, she sometimes wishes that Anatoly would remember that they used to be friends .
She turns off the television. Anatoly doesn’t even seem to register the loss of noise.
Molokov storms into the room a few moments later. Storms probably isn’t the right word — Molokov is not angry , he never is, he simply walks with the confidence of a man who always knows exactly where he is going and what he is going to do once he gets there. All the same, Leonid startles as he enters, his brown eyes now wide and watching Molokov intently. Molokov doesn’t even acknowledge him.
“The opening ceremony begins in ten minutes,” he informs them briskly. “You will be expected to be present. The first match begins almost immediately after. I suggest you head down now.” His eyes sweep over Svetlana and Leonid briefly, taking in Svetlana’s tank top and shorts and Leonid’s fuzzy sweater. “And I suggest the two of you change. We are expected to appear somewhat professional at these events, after all.”
And with that, he’s gone again, Anatoly close on his heels.
Svetlana does not want to go to the opening ceremony. She doesn’t want to change into her dress that doesn’t fit her right and she doesn’t want to sit and listen to people talk about chess for hours and she doesn’t want to be surrounded by all the people , all of them talking and staring and full of so much restless energy she feels like it’s suffocating her. She doesn’t want to be in Merano at all, really.
But even if Anatoly has forgotten she exists, she refuses to give up on him. Not yet. He is still her husband, and she will go support him, because that’s what they’re supposed to do for each other. That’s what friends do for each other.
She grits her teeth, puts on the dress, and prepares to face the chess world.
—
Freddie stops paying attention about halfway through the opening ceremony. It’s the same every year, anyway — the same merchandisers peddling cheap junk, the same rambling odes to chess probably written by someone who has never seen a chessboard before, the same lurking diplomats ready to descend like hawks the moment someone’s less than civil to the Commies. Freddie doesn’t care. His job is to play chess, not listen to whatever bullshit the FIDE is spewing.
At some point, the Arbiter enters. Freddie vaguely notices that they still haven’t appeared to age at all since he saw them last. They’ve been the FIDE president for as long as he can remember, and yet they never seem to get any older. Freddie’s personal theory on the matter is that the FIDE cryogenically preserves their presidents’ bodies, or that they just have access to some magical wrinkle-removing cream.
Florence apparently feels much more strongly about the Arbiter’s skin routine than Freddie, because her grip suddenly tightens around Freddie’s arm, her nails digging into his skin, and she lets out a soft squeak of alarm.
“Jesus, Flo, what’s your problem?” Freddie whispers under the Arbiter’s speech on international relations.
“Sorry,” Florence mumbles. “I just… it’s nothing.”
“Liar. Obviously it’s not.” Freddie glances between her and the Arbiter, trying to make the connection. “What, did you fuck them or something?”
“What? No.”
“You can tell me. I won’t be mad.”
“I did not have sex with the president of the FIDE,” Florence says, her voice now back to its usual Freddie-I-am-so-disappointed-in-you tone. “It’s really nothing. I just forgot they would be here.”
“How do you forget—”
“Would you shut up? I’m trying to listen.”
Freddie shuts up. He casts another sidelong glance at Flo, trying to discern more information from her expression, but her brief moment of surprise has passed. Her expression is back to the neutral one she always wears at important events.
Florence is always on-edge at big chess matches — more than Freddie himself, most of the time, even though she isn’t the one playing — but she’s been even more tense than usual this time around. Freddie doesn’t know why. It’s not like any of this is new to either of them — he’s played and beaten Soviets before, and she’s had plenty of experience trying to stay diplomatic behind the scenes. Sure, it’s the first time he’s playing Sergievsky, specifically, but he’s studied the man’s technique so extensively he can’t imagine he’d be surprised by anything the Commie tries to throw at him.
And — God, okay, fine . He did die at the last chess match. He died, and then he came back, and neither of them know why. But it's not like that means it's going to happen again. Isn't there a statistics theory about that? Something happening once doesn't increase the chances of it happening again? Florence would know. She had to take a stats class in college.
Either way, it doesn't matter. Freddie is going to play the Commie, and he is going to win, and then maybe after they get home he and Florence can go out to that new Italian place down the street, or something. Somewhere they can celebrate.
The Arbiter calls Freddie onstage. He is ready.
He puts on his best poker face and goes to face the chess world.