Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Florence moved to the United States, she was only a child. She had no idea how much went into immigration, what had to be done to get her citizenship, how much paperwork was involved in it all. 

She stayed in Budapest, after the tournament. With her father. The thought was foreign, as if she was living in a dream, and yet, there he was. Frail, older and smaller than she remembered, but there. She spent hours on the phone with American embassy and with her adoptive parents for advice, going back and forth to the embassy, gathering documents, filling out forms. It was like she’d taken on a full-time job, just trying to get him home.

All the while, he shuffled around the apartment she’d found with a short-term lease, making her tea, coaxing her into conversation and away from the phone calls and the paperwork. He wanted to know everything about her—wanted to know everything he’d missed. It took everything in her to keep from bursting into tears every time. It was everything she’d ever dreamed of.

It was also a welcome distraction. She missed Anatoly dearly, but her heart was filled with gratitude towards him. Having her father returned to her was the greatest gift she’d ever been given, and there was no way for her to repay him. On the other hand, Freddie had gone home after his big win and immediately made himself scarce. It was wildly out of character. Florence stopped keeping up with the news—he wasn’t her problem anymore.

“Come, play chess,” her father coaxed. “I want to see you beat me.” Over the weeks, he picked up more and more English, and she learned more and more Hungarian. It ached, how unfamiliar the words felt in her mouth, but whenever she got something right, her father’s eyes sparkled. All their conversations were slow, aided by English-Hungarian dictionaries, but they made it the whole way like that.

Florence did beat him. Not every time, but most of the time. He was delighted—he laughed, his eyes sparkling, and told her about when they would play together when she was a child, the creative strategies she would try and her reasoning behind them. It amazed her that he remembered any of that. She wished she could remember more about him from that time, when he stood tall and was strong enough to pick her up and swing her around. Now, they walked the neighborhoods together at a third of Florence’s normal pace, and he leaned on his cane and pointed out buildings and houses he knew and how much things had changed the whole way.

It took months, but finally, they received word that everything was in order. She could take her father home with her, and he could stay.

“Are you sure you want to leave Budapest?” she asked him over dinner, now worried. He had been a prisoner of the Soviet Union for decades. Why would he want to leave his home again?

“My home is with you. I go where you go,” he said, as if reading her mind, and reached out to squeeze her hand. Then, he smiled. “As long as we can visit.”

Florence nodded. “I’ll figure something out,” she promised. “As soon as we get back I’ll have to find a new job. We’ll be okay until then, but…”

“What will you do?” he asked. “Go back to chess?”

The thought made her stomach turn. Undeniably, chess was what she was good at. She had the results to prove it—she may have quit before Freddie officially won the world championship, but she put in countless hours of work to get him there in the first place. Surely she could find some other chess players to work with. Except…

She didn’t think she could handle it. She couldn’t do another Freddie. She couldn’t put those countless hours into another person who wasn’t going to respect her. The money was decent, but the emotional toll was too high a cost.

“I don’t know. I think I need a break from being a second,” she said. She didn’t want to burden him with all of that—she hadn’t given him too many details about her relationship with Anatoly or her falling-out with Freddie. It was still so raw, she didn’t want it to affect her rediscovered relationship with her father or how he viewed her. “Maybe I can find some children to tutor, but we’ll need something steadier.”

“Why just tutor?” he asked. “You should play.”

The suggestion left her momentarily speechless.

Florence used to play. Of course she did—she never would have gotten as good as she was without playing professionally. It was how she and Freddie met. In the early days, the two of them would prepare for tournaments together. Even after he asked her to work for him, she went to tournaments on her own. She did research and wrote papers for chess publications. She had a career outside him.

There wasn’t a point where she officially stopped. It just gradually stopped being sustainable. Freddie was on the path to the world championship, and she was so busy with getting him ready for tournaments and managing him as a person that she didn’t have time to compete on her own anymore. It wasn’t even that long ago that she’d last played in a tournament—two years? Three?

When had she forgotten it was an option? How had she left herself behind so completely? It made her so angry—at Freddie and at herself. 

But her father was sitting there in front of her, his face kind and earnest, telling her she should play. Six months ago, that would have been unthinkable. How much more outlandish could it be, to think that she could still make a living playing chess?

“Maybe,” she agreed. “I’ll still need to find something else to pay the bills first, but… when we get home maybe I’ll look for tournaments nearby.”

“Good,” he smiled, satisfied. “You’re too good not to.”

He was her father, so maybe he was obligated to say things like that. But the reality was that Florence had lived her whole life hoping to make him proud. What choice did she have but to believe him?

Finally, they made it back to Connecticut and started to settle in. Florence had barely had time to explore the area when she bought her little house, so she and her father did it together, just as they had in Budapest. They took walks and met their neighbors and found their favorite restaurants and grocery stores. Florence found a job as a bank teller, and made friends with some of her colleagues. Every once in a while, someone recognized her, but everyone was polite.

They found a chess club, and they both joined. 

Florence registered for her first tournament.

Florence won her first tournament. It wasn’t quite a mortgage payment, but it felt significant.

She kept going, and she kept winning. Not every time, but enough. Enough that, after a couple of years of traveling the country for them, she was invited for international tournaments. Enough that newspapers reached out to her. Enough that she was invited to an interzonal. Enough to make it to the candidates tournament.

Only then did reality hit her. She had forcibly put Freddie out of her mind, choosing instead to focus on rebuilding a life that she could be proud of. He hadn’t been in the news much, either—something that would have worried her, if they were still speaking—which made it easier to forget he existed. 

“I don’t know if I should go,” she admitted after returning home from the interzonal.

“What are you talking about?” her father asked. “Of course you’re going. You’ve worked so hard.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly enjoy the last time I was at a world championship,” she said.

“Florence,” he said, looking her directly in the eye. “If the champion was anyone else, would you want to play?”

“Yes,” she said, without hesitation. Without question. 

“Then you must play,” he said. “Do not let this man take your dreams from you.”

There was the other issue—Anatoly was likely to be playing as well. The thought of having to go through him to get to Freddie was almost too much. But her father was right, of course. She would never be able to live with herself if she turned down a chance like that just to because of two men she had a history with.

The candidates tournament arrived. She went. Anatoly did not. That hurt in a different way.

It was a long and grueling process, every bit as exhausting as she remembered from the last time she was here with Freddie. Every game she played, she became more certain—she wanted this. She wanted to win. She wanted to show the world what she was capable of.

It came down to the final game, but Florence did win. As soon as she shook her opponent’s hand, she felt like collapsing on the floor in sobs, full of relief, of joy, of trepidation. It was really happening. She was going to challenge Freddie for the world championship.

From the audience, her father was beaming at her.

Chapter Text

Freddie didn’t really keep up with the news.

For a while, he didn’t really keep up with anything. For a while, he spent all his time at home, wallowing in bed. He didn’t have any friends to check up on him. He ignored interview requests, and declined any Walter brought to him. Not that Walter called often. He didn’t bother refilling his medication, so he could barely walk even if he wanted to go anywhere. He didn’t play chess, or read anything about the game. It was just him and his world championship title. 

Everything he ever wanted. For all the good it did him.

Walter called him one afternoon. Freddie had no clue what day of the week it was. “I just wanted to see if you’d heard the news,” he said.

“What news?” Freddie asked. His voice was scratchy from disuse.

“Well, I’m glad you’re hearing it from me first, then,” Walter said. “Look, don’t freak out. Florence was on TV.”

“On TV?” Freddie repeated. “Why, is she okay?” Images of her beheaded in the woods on the Sunday news flashed through his mind, and his heart skipped a beat. It did that sometimes.

“She’s fine,” Walter said. “It was for chess. She’s been playing in tournaments.”

“Oh.” Well. What was wrong with that? Why did it feel like Freddie had sawdust in his mouth? Of course she was playing chess. It was what she did. It was what they both did.

“She’s doing a very good job, but I’m sure that’s not a surprise to you,” Walter continued. “I just wanted to give you a heads-up. How’s the chess going lately? The next championship is coming up.”

“It’s over a year away.”

“It’ll be here before you know it,” Walter said. “We’re going to have to get the press train going again pretty soon. It’s bad enough you’ve been out of the public eye for as long as you have.”

“What if I don’t want to?” Freddie asked.

The line was silent for a long time.

“Freddie, look,” Walter said. “You’ve been struggling, I get it. I need you to see what this looks like from the outside—America’s best and brightest, the underdog, came back from the brink of ruin to win the world chess championship, taking it out of Soviet hands. And then what does he do, at exactly the time where he should be doing victory laps? At the time where any company in the United States would have given him thousands and thousands of dollars for a partnership opportunity? He goes home and won’t leave the house. He vanishes. The prize money was good, but it wasn’t that good, Freddie. You need to pull it together.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Freddie hissed. Hey, anger. He hadn’t felt much of anything in so long, it was almost a relief.

“This isn’t you, Freddie. That’s all I’m saying. Look, if there’s something I can do to help, say the word, but I think you need something other than me. Go out on the town. Get dressed up and go to a nice restaurant. Find a nice lady to bring home. Or a man, I don’t judge,” Walter said. “But get out there and start playing chess again. This championship is coming up whether you like it or not, and I think Florence is coming for you.”

Freddie hung up on him. He very nearly threw the phone across the room. He remembered the snide remarks about Walter Florence would make—maybe she was onto something.

Still, his words stuck with him. A few days later, he got dressed, grabbed his cane, and made the impossibly long trek to his building’s mail room to pick up months’ worth of uncollected mail. He left it in a pile on the dining room table and sifted through it, looking for chess publications. Looking for any news about Florence. Finally, in a little newsletter from one of the chess clubs they used to frequent together, an update on her success at the US championships. Second place.

From then on, he kept tabs on where she was playing. He picked up his mail regularly. He refilled his prescriptions and started dropping by the chess clubs again—all to make sure he knew where Florence was. And every time she won, a pit of dread grew in his stomach. By the time he found out she’d qualified for the candidates tournament, he already knew how it was going to go.

The night he got the official word, Freddie went on a walk. It was slow going, and he had to take breaks to sit down often. Finally, he got where he wanted—a little park by the water, twinkling from the light of the moon and the street lamps. He sat out there for two hours, just breathing and thinking.

How could she do this to him? Wasn’t it bad enough she’d abandoned him? Tried to sabotage him by working with his opponent? Made it so that he couldn’t even enjoy his hard-won victory? Now she had to come for his title too? 

He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw things. He wanted to stomp his feet, to kick and punch and squeeze. He knew if he did that he would be setting himself back days, physically, but there was a small rock sitting by his bench, so he threw it into the water. It helped a little.

He’d loved her, didn’t she know that? And she threw him away. Just like everyone else. Everything seemed perfect until it wasn’t, and that was just how life went.

If Florence thought he was going to take this lying down, she was out of her mind. This was perfect, actually. Suddenly he couldn’t wait to play her. She knew his play style inside and out, but he knew hers just as well. He had plenty of time to prepare. He would start first thing in the morning.

There was no way he was going to let her take his title from him. 

Chapter Text

Florence had been to Italy before for championships, but never with enough time to properly enjoy her time there. This time, she was determined—however long the tournament took, whatever the outcome, she and her father were going to have a nice, relaxing two weeks of holiday right after. Milan, Venice, Rome, maybe they would visit her namesake. There was so much to see.

First, though, they had to get through this. 

“You’re sure you’ll be alright?” her father asked.

“Of course. It’s only a press conference,” she said, half to convince herself. She knew she would be fine, but she also knew what the press was like. She wasn’t eager to subject herself to them and their inevitable probing, drama-seeking questions.

He put his hands on her shoulders. Backstage, they’d been given the five minute warning. “That isn’t what I meant.”

Oh. It was going to be her first time seeing Freddie since Budapest. But she had already spent years with him. “I’m still sure,” she said. “There’s nothing he can do that would surprise me at this point.”

“Alright. Remember, you don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to,” he reminded her. She laughed, because she used to tell Freddie the same thing right before he would go out. But her father didn’t have to worry about her shoving any reporters.

She was given the go-ahead, and, taking a deep breath, Florence stepped out onto the platform to stand behind the podium. The cameras began to flash immediately as The Arbiter introduced her. 

“The World Champion has not yet arrived, but for now, questions may be addressed to the challenger, Grandmaster Florence Vassy.” Good to know Freddie hadn’t changed.

The questions were cacophonous for a few moments as the reporters all talked over each other, and Florence remembered how much she didn’t miss this. After a few moments, one voice rose above the crowd.

“Ms. Vassy, how does it feel to be attending the world championship as a player rather than a second?”

Easy. “I’m very excited to be here. It all happened so fast, it almost feels unreal, but I’m looking forward to taking advantage of this opportunity and playing to the best of my ability.”

“Are you worried about playing your former boss?” another asked.

“Not particularly,” Florence said. “We haven’t worked together in three years. My play has changed in that time, and I’m sure his has too. It’ll be interesting to see what he’s been up to.”

“What do you know about Anatoly Sergievsky declining his seeded spot in the candidates tournament? Was that for your benefit, or was he not allowed to compete out of the country again after his defection?”

Florence opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She had expected to be asked about Anatoly, but for some reason, this one stopped her cold.

Thankfully—or maybe this was just the better of two bad situations—right then, Freddie appeared. He hopped up the side of the platform to the other podium eight feet away and leaned into the microphone. “Sorry I’m late, everyone. What’s up?”

Once again, the reporters erupted. Florence used the time to look at him as discretely as she could.

He wore sunglasses, so she couldn’t really see his face. But otherwise, he looked… normal. Maybe a little thin. His shirt looked expensive, his pants looked ironed. His hair was slightly longer. What had she expected? That he would fall apart without her? That he needed her? She didn’t even want him to need her. Maybe it would have been a little bit of an ego boost, but he looked very much like the last time she’d seen him. Like only a few months had passed, rather than a few years.

“Freddie! You’ve been scarce since winning the championship in Budapest. What have you been doing since then?” a reporter called out.

“Y’know, nothing exciting,” he shrugged, the picture of aloof and at ease. “Fame can be kind of a drag sometimes, did you know that? I could barely step outside without people wanting my autograph. I get it, but it was more peaceful to stay inside or go out in nature, see the countryside, that kind of thing.”

Now Florence really was staring. Freddie, going out in nature? There was no way. Then she noticed Walter standing to the side of the platform, away from the reporters, his hands in his coat pockets. He looked in her direction and met her eye, and smiled and nodded at her. Florence turned her head forward again—was it possible she wanted to see him even less than Freddie? Maybe so.

“How are you feeling about playing against your former second?” another reporter asked.

Here Florence expected some snide remark, but it didn’t come. “Well, Florence and I have played a lot of games together, but it’s been a long time since we’ve competed,” he said. “I think it’ll be an interesting tournament. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Speaking of seconds, who did you bring this year, Freddie?”

“I brought Evan Blanchard with me, and I have a team back home that’s just a phone call away,” he said. Florence quickly placed the name—he was in the top five at the US championship this year, maybe third or fourth. She couldn’t imagine he was doing the kind of personal management Freddie had required of her, but maybe that was what Walter was for.

“What about you, Florence? Who do you have on your team?”

“I brought my father, Gregor Vassy,” Florence said. “He was in a Soviet prison for most of my life, but we were reunited shortly after the last championship. He’s a brilliant player and he taught me when I was a child. I wouldn’t be here today without him, so I’m proud to have him as my second.”

Now Freddie was staring at her, mouth ajar. If Florence wasn’t mistaken, he looked a little pale. Behind him, Walter, too, looked a little bit taken aback. She wanted to sneer at him, but with so many cameras, she kept it inside. I got him back no thanks to you, she thought pointedly in his direction.

“Freddie! You arrived in Merano a few days ago. What’s your impression of our little town so far?”

Freddie grimaced, looking ticked off now. “So far? Seems cold and dull to me,” he said. “Maybe I’ll change my mind when I see these so-called spas. I’m gonna be honest, it’ll be hard to top Bangkok.”

“Florence, what’s been your strategy to prepare for this tournament?”

“Not much different than preparing for any tournament,” Florence said. As she spoke, she noticed Walter flagging Freddie down. He stepped to the side of the platform and leaned down so they could have a whispered conversation. Freddie seemed annoyed. “It’s been a little harder than normal since he hasn’t played in any other tournaments since the last tournament. A lot of studying his games and working on my own weak spots.”

“Freddie, this is the first time two American citizens have played each other for the world championship in the history of the sport. Do you think that will affect your play?”

It went on like that for what seemed like ages, but finally, the Arbiter appeared and shooed the reporters away.

Backstage, Florence’s father was waiting for her with a smile. “You handled that very well,” he said.

“It wasn’t as bad as I expected,” she said. She just couldn’t figure out whether that was a good thing or not. She’d expected Freddie to have some kind of meltdown. Since it didn’t come now, did that mean it was just going to happen later?

Then, Walter and Freddie joined them. Freddie still wore his sunglasses. Florence wished he wouldn’t. “Florence! So good to see you again. I hope the last few years have been treating you well,” Walter greeted.

“I’ve been peachy,” she frowned.

“And Mr. Vassy! It’s wonderful to meet you. I’m Walter Anderson,” Walter said, extending his hand for her father to shake. “I think we’ll be seeing a lot of each other these next few weeks.”

Her father took his hand and shook firmly. “Yes, I’ve heard about you,” he said. Walter’s smile became strained. “I look forward to working with you.”

“Of course,” Walter nodded. “Well, we’d better go. Lots to do before the opening ceremonies, you know.”

“Of course,” Florence repeated, and then they were gone. She turned to her father. “That was way too normal.”

“Maybe he’s developed a sense of shame,” her father suggested.

Florence snorted. “That would take a miracle.”

“Well, I don’t want you to worry about it,” he said. “You just focus on chess. If there’s any funny business, I’ll handle it.”

Only a few years ago, all the funny business was Florence’s domain. It was such a relief to have someone she trusted to take care of it for her. “Thanks,” she said. “We deserve a reward for getting through all that. Let’s go out to eat.”

Her father grinned. “If you insist.”

Chapter Text

Once, playing chess with Florence was the easiest thing in the world.

Once, there wasn’t a day that went by where they didn’t play a game. Once, it was what they did when one of them had had a bad day. They played chess together, and their problems went away.

Now, playing her felt like torture. He had to just sit there, in full view of her. There was nowhere to go. Not that she was even looking at him—all her attention was on the board, as Freddie’s should have been. The game itself felt foreign, her play just different enough from what he was used to that it felt wrong.

Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe that’s what he needed to divorce himself from those memories. He wasn’t living in the past—he was here, now, in Merano. And he was going to win.

Their first two games were a draw. Then she won one, then another draw, then his first win. They were still evenly matched, even after all this time—and now they were evenly matched on the top of the world, the two best chess players in existence at this moment. Even with their falling out, something about that felt right.

After each game, Florence looked Freddie dead in the eye and shook his hand, and then she and her father disappeared. He had no idea what she did during her off time. Freddie mostly stayed inside. Evan, his interim second, was a big help with the chess games, but he wasn’t really someone Freddie wanted to hang out with. He was pretty sure the feeling was mutual.

“How about a night on the town?” Walter asked after his second win. “You have a rest day tomorrow to recover.”

"I think I'd better focus," Freddie said, frowning at the chess board in his hotel room. He hadn't been completely happy with a move he'd made, and was trying to find another way out of the situation.

"Come on, that's not the Freddie I know," Walter said, egging him on. "Let's at least talk strategy. What do you have planned?”

“What do you mean?” Freddie asked.

“Well, you've played seven games and you’re still tied,” Walter said, taking a seat at his desk chair. “It seems like nothing is going to change in the realm of chess. So, what are you going to do to get the upper hand?”

“I don’t know, I was hoping she’d just start making mistakes,” Freddie said.

“Why wait?”

Freddie stared at him. “What, like the yogurt thing? She’s not going to fall for that. She knows me too well.”

“She knew you well three years ago,” Walter pointed out. “I’m not saying she would fall for it. I am saying it would make her mad, and you’re very good at that. Play to your strengths.”

Even the thought of it annoyed Freddie, but Walter had a point. They were just trading points back and forth at this point. Something had to give. “I’ll think about it,” he said.

Walter held up his hands. “I’m just giving suggestions. You’re the boss,” he said. “I have a call scheduled with GQ, but let me know if you need anything.”

Freddie thought about it.

Walter’s suggestion didn’t sit well with him. But on the other hand, that was easy to ignore—he wanted to win, and Florence already hated him. What difference would it make what Freddie did to try to undermine her? That was all part of the game. It was a time-honored tradition. The press liked to blow it out of proportion, but it wasn’t like Freddie invented these tactics.

The next game was another draw. Afterwards, rather than going straight back to his hotel, he hung back a while and allowed himself to be caught up with by reporters. He may have hated them, but at least they were reliable.

“Freddie! Tell us about the game. How are you feeling about your play so far?” one of the reporters asked, shoving a recording device in his face.

“I think I’m doing pretty good,” Freddie said. “I’m having fun. What more can you ask?”

“You’re enjoying playing against Florence again, then?” another reporter asked.

“Sure, why not? It’s just like old times,” Freddie said.

“You had a pretty public falling-out. What do you say to the claims that you mistreated her?”

“Who said I mistreated her? Did she say that?” Freddie asked. “You guys love to make up your own little spin on things. Everyone loves to hate me, I get it. I never forced her into anything. If it was that bad, she could have left any time she wanted.”

“But she did leave. Does that mean there’s some merit to the claim?”

“Hey, you’re looking at me and a woman who knowingly had an affair with a married man—and a communist, no less—and you’re telling me I’m the one who’s in the wrong?” Freddie asked. “Listen, if she thinks she was mistreated, she can come talk to me about it. If she’s just telling that to the press, I’d be a little suspicious of that if I were you.”

Walter was waiting for him after he’d extricated himself from the reporters. “What took you?”

“Just talking to some reporters,” he said. “They had some questions about Florence. Who am I to deny them?”

Walter looked proud. That was funny.

The next day, when Freddie was heading over to the game, he passed by Florence in a convention center hallway headed in the same direction. Except, he almost missed her completely, because she was being swarmed with reporters. It was probably unrelated—they were just like that. Vultures, those guys. But still, when she made it over to sit down, she looked supremely annoyed. If Freddie wasn't mistaken, she shot him a withering look over the chessboard. Freddie flashed her a smile, which just made her eye twitch.

Freddie won that game.

The next morning, Walter convinced him to come out for breakfast rather than relying on the hotel breakfast bar, as luxurious as it was—Walter was nothing if not meticulous about his hotels. They sat inside because it was cold, but the food was good. Almost worth having to bundle up to leave the hotel that early.

Walter spotted him first. "Isn't that Florence's father over there?" he asked, nodding to a man standing by the front counter. He looked like he was waiting for something. Oh, god, was she coming here?

"Did you set this up?" Freddie demanded.

Walter looked at him like he'd grown a second head. "What are you talking about?" he asked. "I'm just pointing out that he's here. Weird coincidence."

"Yeah," Freddie said. He studied the old man--he had only seen glimpses of him here and there since coming to Merano. He was worn and weathered, but he stood tall, even with the cane he walked with. That was more than Freddie could say for himself when he was using his cane. In a place like this, he never wanted to be seen with it, so that required a lot of planning. Thankfully, Walter was willing to pick up the slack in that regard.

Gregor Vassy looked their way. He and Freddie locked eyes.

"Shit," Freddie whispered, turning his head back to his plate. "He saw me. He's not coming over here, is he?"

"He is," Walter confirmed with a smirk. Almost like he thought this was funny. What an asshole. "Mr. Vassy, what a nice surprise! Here for breakfast too?"

"Yes, I'm picking it up to bring back to the hotel," Gregor said. His voice was low and gravely, like he'd only just been released from that Soviet prison and hadn't yet recovered. "My daughter is a night owl."

Freddie risked looking at him again. Up closer now, he could sort of see the resemblance. They had the same nose, the same color eyes. He'd been trying not to think about the man.

Once, he and Florence were the same. They bonded over their parents—Freddie’s absent and deadbeat, Florence’s absent and dead. Or so she thought. Freddie told Florence about everything he remembered from the early days, before things got so bad. Florence told Freddie what she remembered about the man standing by Freddie’s table right now. About how he taught her to play chess, about how he would pick her up and swing her around in the living room, about how he taught her the names of the streets and the rivers and the tanks that were positioned to roll through their city. 

It was an even playing field. Now, against all odds, Florence had her father back, and he loved her, and their lives were perfect. Well, good for her. 

"I remember," Walter said. "Birds of a feather, these two. I would book interviews before noon, and they would make me reschedule."

"Right," Gregor said. He didn't seem amused by the anecdote. "It's lucky I found you here this morning. I was hoping to talk to you, Freddie. Do you mind?"

"About what?" Freddie asked, wary. 

Gregor grabbed an unoccupied chair from the table next to them and dragged it over to sit down between him and  Walter. For one ridiculous moment, Freddie was afraid—this guy was part of the resistance against the Soviet Union back in the day. He must have been pretty hardcore then. But now he was an old man, and Walter was right there, and they were in a crowded restaurant. There was nothing to be worried about.

"Florence had a particularly unpleasant run-in with some reporters yesterday right before the game," Gregor said.

"That's too bad. They're a really unpleasant group, aren't they?" Walter asked rhetorically. 

Gregor ignored him. "I saw the publication in the paper this morning. It seems they were jumping off of some things you said about her to the press the day before," he said. "Some unkind things."

"I didn't say anything that wasn't true," Freddie said stubbornly. "It's too bad that happened to her, but I go through that every day. At least now she knows how it feels."

Gregor leveled him with a stern look, and Freddie's stubbornness drained out of him. "I want you to listen to me carefully, Mr. Trumper," he said. "I understand you and Florence have a history. I understand you have hurt each other. But she has worked very, very hard to get here, as I know you did at the last tournament. I need you to think about yourself back then, and extend to her the same kindness you needed. There is no reason to bring further unpleasantness into this business. You're both very good players. Play the game fairly, and let us see who comes out on top."

Freddie stared at him. "Are you implying something?" he asked.

"No. I am only requesting a fair tournament," Gregor said, quiet but firm. "I was very disappointed to read what you said about her in the paper. I would hate for something like that to happen again."

He stood then, and returned the chair to its original table. He was pretty strong, for an old man with a cane. "I think my food is ready. Enjoy the rest of your breakfast," he said to the two of them, and then hobbled away.

Freddie stared after him, and then turned his stare to Walter. "Did he just threaten me?"

Walter grinned. "Seemed like he might have."

"And you're just going to let that happen?"

"What do you want me to do, go after him?" Walter asked. "Don't worry, I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

Freddie tried to put it out of his head, but the whole thing rubbed him the wrong way. He didn't know what exactly about it was bothering him. The threat? He didn't know what kind of evil mafia contacts this guy could possibly have, especially so far from his native land and after decades in prison. Maybe it was the fact that it felt so juvenile—Florence was an adult, she didn't need her dad coming over to ask her playmate to stop being mean to her. If she wanted him to shut the hell up, she could do it herself. And she had, many times in the past.

Maybe it was just the fact that she had someone to make that request for her in the first place. Maybe it wasn't that at all. 'I was very disappointed' echoed in his mind over and over again. What did Freddie care if he was disappointed? He wasn't his father.

Freddie lost that game. Florence offered her hand over the board. He grit his teeth and shoved the table, causing most of the pieces to clatter to the floor, and stalked off.

Backstage, Florence stalked after him. “What is your problem?” she demanded.

It was the first thing she’d said directly to him since the start of the tournament. “I don’t have a problem.”

“Clearly you do, because you’re making a scene,” she said. “We’d gotten so far in without you throwing a fit. What’s wrong now? You didn’t get enough out of calling me a liar to the press the other day?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I still had to run everything I say to the press by you,” Freddie snapped. “So nice of you to do that for free.”

For a moment, she looked like she was considering hitting him. Great, he could probably get her disqualified for that. 

“Focus on the chess, Freddie,” she said. “It’s what you’re good at.”

He did go out that night. The next day was a rest day. He didn't invite Evan, and he didn't talk to Walter, just got bundled up and went looking for whatever constituted a nightlife in this little town. It was either drink to excess, or star throwing chairs around the room.

If he had to listen to accordion music while drinking, so be it.

Chapter Text

Florence's rest day was quiet. It was important, she'd learned, to actually use the day to rest and not spend all of it trying to prepare. The pressure for tournaments like this was immense. Without a break, you ran the risk of breaking down during a game.

She and her father got recommendations from the hotel clerks and the restaurant guide. They went out to eat, and visited the spas, and rode the cable car to the top of the mountain to take in the views. Back at the hotel, they did play a few games, but for the most part, she just relaxed. After the incident with the reporters, it was exactly what she needed, and she went into the next game feeling refreshed.

That was not the case for Freddie.

It was obvious before she even got to the board, because the Arbiter informed her and her father that the opposing team had requested a second rest day, which he had denied. "The agreed-upon rules are very clear on the schedule. Unless both parties request an additional day, there is no reason such a request would be granted," he said, as if reciting the rule straight from the book.

"Did he say why?" Florence asked.

"I am not at liberty to give out that information," the Arbiter said. That was probably also in the rules somewhere. "I was obligated to inform you about the request. Mr. Trumper has agreed to play today, so the game can continue as planned."

So, Florence went out to play chess.

Freddie was a few minutes late. The clock had already started, and Florence, playing white, had already made her first move when Freddie hobbled over.

He was pale, walking slowly, and was trying to disguise the fact that he was breathing heavily. If Florence had to guess, she would say that he had probably been sitting backstage, trying to catch his breath just to make it out here. She'd seen it plenty of times before—usually when he missed a dose of his medication, or he'd overdone it the day before, or he'd had a particularly bad day for no discernible reason at all.

He should have been using his cane. He probably shouldn't have even come, he looked close to passing out. Florence could see now why he would want an extra rest day.

But, he sat down, moved his piece, and hit the clock. All the while, he was trying to regain his composure. Florence felt a little tiny inkling of pity--he was sick, and he shouldn't be playing such a high-stakes game in this condition. But he wasn't her friend. That wasn't her business.

They played a few turns, and Florence assumed Freddie would recover enough to play decently the way he normally did. It wasn't like he'd never had a flare-up at a tournament. But this tournament was kind of a big deal, and as they got into midgame territory, he made a mistake that told Florence everything she needed to know.

She could win this game easily. Maybe he could pull himself together, but not well enough to beat her.

That wasn't Florence's problem. Especially with how he'd talked about her to the press, with how he'd talked to her after their last game, he deserved everything he got coming to him. He was a miserable person, and Florence was going to beat him and take the title from him.

But this... This was something he didn't have control over. It would be so easy to take advantage of it, but would Florence be able to live with herself? Would she have been able to live with it if she'd allowed Freddie's attempt at cheating at the last tournament? He couldn't understand how angry it had made her. Would she be able to forgive herself, knowing what she'd done?

Florence made another move, and then stood and went to get the Arbiter.

"We need a recess and an extra rest day. We can return to the game afterwards," Florence said. Walter and her father were both approaching to see what the problem was.

"On what grounds?" the Arbiter asked.

"He isn't well, and I want a fair game," Florence said. "He asked for an extra rest day, and now I am too. All you need is for both teams to agree, right?"

"…Right," the Arbiter agreed, looking between her and Walter.

"Well? Will your team agree?" Florence asked him, arms crossed over her chest.

Walter glanced behind him at Freddie, who was now staring at them, but was in no shape to get up and see what was going on. "Gladly. We'll see you all in two days.”

Florence and her father quickly departed, but he tugged her sleeve to stop her in the hallway. "What happened? Did he say something to you?"

"No, he just..." Florence sighed. "He's not feeling well. I can tell."

"He's sick?" her father asked.

"Sort of. He has a disability, his heart doesn't pump the way it’s supposed to," she explained in a hushed voice. They had gone to great lengths to make sure the general public didn't find out about it. Florence didn’t understand it, but Freddie  felt very strongly about it being a secret. "He was never going to be playing at his best. I could have won, I just. It felt wrong. Does that make sense?"

Her father nodded, a weary smile on his face. "Of course it does," he said. "I'm proud of you, little one."

They went back to the hotel and spent the rest of the evening looking at the position the game was left in and what Freddie might do, but there was only so much to talk about. The next day was split between studying and sightseeing.

Then, the morning of the resumed game, there was a knock on her hotel room door. It was a pattern Florence recognized. She pulled herself out of bed and looked through the peep hole in her room, and sure enough, there was Freddie.

She debated for a moment whether or not to open the door, but she knew he wasn't in the same hotel as her. He'd come all the way over here. She might as well see what he wanted. Still in her pajamas, she opened the door.

There he was when it swung open, almost looking surprised that she was on the other side of it. What had he expected? "Good morning," she greeted flatly. He was leaning on his cane, but still, the fact that he made it all the way over here was a good sign. "You must be feeling better."

"I feel great," he said, sounding supremely grouchy. "Why did you do that?"

"Excuse me?"

"You know what I'm talking about. Why did you ask for a recess?" Freddie demanded.

Ah. Florence hadn't really expected to have to explain herself to him—she figured he wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth and just accept the small bit of kindness. How silly of her.

"You were playing like shit, Freddie. You know that," she said.

"Yeah, I was. And you could have won," Freddie said. "You would have been one game closer to winning the whole thing!"

"Yes, I would've been," she said. "But I want to actually know I've won."

Freddie scoffed. "I would have taken advantage of it if I were you. I mean, you hate my guts."

"I'm not you, Freddie. You aren't me. Thank god," Florence said. "As unpleasant as all of this has been, I want to get out of it with my conscience intact. Don't make it my problem that you've already lost yours."

Freddie sneered at her. "This is so stupid. Do you realize that? Why did you do this to me?"

"Me? I think this has nothing to do with me," Florence said. "Go away, Freddie. We have a game today."

He opened his mouth to retort, but Florence didn't let him—she shut the door in his face.

She spent the next half hour or so fuming and pacing her hotel room, until her father appeared to invite her downstairs to breakfast.

"What's wrong?" he asked immediately upon seeing her.

"Nothing," she lied. "Sorry. Give me five minutes and I'll be ready to go."

"Is it something to do with Trumper?" he asked.

"It's fine," she assured him, and went to change into real clothes. Once she'd emerged from the bathroom, she felt a little more calm. Her father was still shooting her worried looks, but he didn't ask her about it again. They went down to breakfast and ate, and Florence put effort into having a nice, normal conversation. She needed to pull herself together before the game started, but she couldn't believe how ungrateful Freddie was. He really couldn't let anything go, could he?

When they arrived at the convention center for the game that afternoon, the Arbiter was waiting for them.

"What happened now?" Florence asked, feeling an inkling of dread.

The Arbiter brandished a piece of paper from an internal suit pocket. "Frederick Trumper has resigned the match."

Florence gaped at him. "Wh—he what?" she asked. Surely she must have been hearing things. Freddie would never resign.

"He has conceded," the Arbiter confirmed. "I'm going to make the announcement momentarily. You are the new world chess champion, Ms. Vassy—congratulations."

Florence felt like she couldn't understand what he was saying to her. This wasn't right. Her father's hand on her shoulder was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality.

"This is a big surprise," her father said.

"I agree," the Arbiter huffed.

"No," Florence said faintly. And then, stronger, "no, he can't do that."

"He can," the Arbiter said. "And he has. He personally delivered this signed resignation letter to me this morning."

Florence shook her head. "I'm not accepting his resignation," she said, and as she said it, she felt firm on it. "This is ridiculous. Look, I'll talk to him, just—don't announce the resignation yet, okay?"

The Arbiter leveled her with a scrutinizing look. "I'm willing to allow you the time to convince him," he said. "But you have a game scheduled very soon. If you don't return for it, the game will be forfeit."

"Fine," Florence agreed. If neither one of them showed up, it wasn’t like it would affect their scores. She turned to her father. "Stay here, I'm going to check his hotel. I promise I'll be back."

Her father nodded reluctantly. "If you're sure," he said. "Be careful."

"I promise," she said.

She went to the hotel she knew Freddie and Walter were staying at. She had no idea what rooms they were in, but she asked the front desk to call them and let her talk to them. Someone answered, and the receptionist explained the situation and got permission to hand the phone over, but it wasn't who Florence was hoping for.

"What can I do for you, Florence?" Walter asked.

"Where's Freddie?" she asked. "The Arbiter said he resigned the match."

Walter sighed. "Yes, he did," he said. "This whole thing has been a big waste, huh?"

"Where is he?" Florence repeated through gritted teeth.

"I don't know, he didn't come back after he left to give the Arbiter his letter," Walter said. "Why do you want to know?"

"I think I can convince him to keep playing, but I need to find him first," Florence said. "Do you have any way of finding out where he went?"

Walter hummed in thought. "I can call around a few likely suspects," he said.

"Great. My father is still at the convention center. If you find Freddie, call and tell him, and I'll go get him," Florence said. She hung up before Walter could respond, because she didn't really want to talk to him.

She got out on the street and then... well, where would she find him? He probably wouldn't have gone far from the convention center on foot. He was likely feeling better from the other day, but not well enough to be traipsing around a mountainous city on his own.

So, she set off, anxious to track him down as quickly as possible.

Chapter Text

Freddie sat on a bench at the top of the mountain, overlooking a beautiful view. He'd waited here for hours for the sun to set, and he was finally getting what he came for.

Finding someone to take him up the mountain had taken a while. There weren't taxis just driving around like there would have been in Chicago. Finally he gave up and ducked into a nearby restaurant to ask someone to call a taxi for him. When the waitress suggested the cable car, he just scowled at her until she agreed to make the call for him.

It was nice, being up there. He felt like he could see everything. All his problems were way down there, and they were tiny. What was the big deal? They couldn't do any harm, really.
As long as he was up here, he didn't have to face life without his championship title. Everything he'd ever wanted—gone, along with everything else. But what good had it done him? His life after he won wasn't any better than it had been before. He might even argue that it was worse. Might as well give it to someone who deserved it.

He stood, wanting to see over the railing. He had his cane with him, but he hoped the inn at the top of the mountain was far enough away that the reporters wouldn't think to look for him here. Below the railing there were trees everywhere, covering the mountain in a shadowy green that only gave way to the roads and buildings of the city of Merano far, far below. The street lights were twinkling on as the sun just started to descend below the horizon.

Freddie leaned heavily against the railing. How could he show his face down there again? Maybe he could get Walter to arrange a helicopter to evacuate him. Take him all the way back to Milan. There he could probably blend in better than here. There were probably plenty of famous people in Milan.

"Freddie!"

The familiar voice startled him, and he had to grip the railing to keep from falling over. His head whipped around, and there, running over from the inn, was Florence.

Freddie stared at her as she approached, looking frazzled. Her hair was in disarray and she was panting.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Were you going to jump?" she asked, her voice high-pitched and frazzled.

"Jump?" Freddie repeated in disbelief. He looked at the railing and down at the trees below. It wasn't even that much of a drop, for one, and there was no way he’d be able to get his leg up that high even if he wanted to. "Are you kidding me? I'm just watching the sunset." He waved in the direction of the beautiful view around them, which the two of them were steadfastly ignoring.

Florence regarded him carefully, but at least she wasn't accusing him of trying to commit suicide. "That doesn't sound like a very Freddie thing to do," she said cautiously.

"Story of my life lately," he grouched, turning back toward the railing. "What do you want, Florence?"

She approached cautiously, taking a spot at the railing herself a few feet away. She gave him plenty of space, but they were close enough they could speak more quietly now. "I want you to keep playing in the tournament."

Freddie scoffed. "You're kidding me," he said. "That's it? It's too late, Florence, I already told the Arbiter."

"He said if I could convince you, we could keep playing," Florence said. "We've missed today's game, but we can keep playing tomorrow."

"It's not happening," Freddie said. "Why can't you just take your win? You've earned it! Everyone likes you better than me, and you're a good person, and you deserve to have all your dreams come true. Just take the win!"

"It isn't a win," Florence argued. "It's you throwing a fit in a way that benefits me. I want to actually win, Freddie, I don't want you to just give up."

"Well, tough shit! We don't always get what we want in life," he said. "I don't know what your problem is! Why can't you just take it as a gift?"

"I don't want you give me a gift, I want you to apologize!" Florence shouted.

Freddie felt like he'd been slapped. It was deathly silent between them for a few moments. Surely she knew better than that. "What am I supposed to be apologizing for?" he asked.

Florence shot a glare at him. "You tell me."

Freddie thought about it. He really, truly thought about it. 

When Florence left, he had felt a lot of things. Wounded was one. Self-righteous was another. She was the one making a mistake, he'd thought. She was in the wrong. She betrayed him. And he behaved accordingly. And it worked out exactly like he wanted it to--Florence and Sergievsky didn't stay together, and Freddie won the championship. Everything was perfect. Right?

Except then he went home and it wasn't. He didn't have anyone. They'd argued so much about Walter, and then when Freddie got home, Walter made himself scarce--said he was busy with his other clients, but as soon as he was ready to start going to gigs again, to let him know. Freddie didn't have anyone to celebrate with him. He didn't have anyone to talk to. So maybe he wasn't completely in the right.

What started it all? That was probably impossible to pinpoint. What was the saying, death by a thousand papercuts? They'd fought plenty. Freddie said some not-so-nice things to her. "Sorry I listened to Walter instead of you," he said, because he was pretty sure that was a big one. "Sorry I treated you like that."

Florence stared at him. "You mean it?"

"Yeah," Freddie nodded.

She deflated, leaning more heavily now on the railing to keep her upright. "Thanks," she said. "Why did you resign? The Freddie I knew would never have done that."

Freddie shrugged. "I did all that shit to you and you still did something nice for me. You didn't have to do that," he said. "In Budapest you asked me to ask for a delay because of Sergievsky and I said no. So I didn't even ask you. I knew what the answer was going to be."

"Except you didn't," Florence said.

"Right," Freddie agreed. "Because it didn't make any fucking sense! You should have just let me lose that game. But you didn't, so I figured, fine, what the hell. You can have your revenge, you deserve it for being a better person than I am or whatever."

Florence was silent for a moment. "Freddie, you know I didn't come here for you, right?" she asked. "I'm not here to get revenge. I'm here for me. To show myself that I'm more than just someone's second."

"Yeah?" Freddie asked, miserable. "I would have wanted to get revenge."

"Well, as we've established, I'm not you," she said. "I almost didn't want to come because it was you. I knew this was going to be a whole mess and I was dreading it."

"Well, you got your mess."

Florence actually laughed at that. Freddie couldn't remember the last time he'd heard Florence laugh. He didn't like how that realization made him feel.

"Look, Freddie. Let's finish the tournament. We can talk after if you want, but it seems like a waste to come all the way here to not even finish playing," she said. "I just want to play chess. Can we do that?"
Freddie scoffed. "You say that now. What if I win?"

Florence shrugged. "It's only a game."

That didn't sound right to Freddie, but he let it slide.

By that point, the sunset was completely gone. Freddie hadn't paid attention to any of it, but he didn't really mind. He vetoed Florence's suggestion of the cable cars to get back down, and instead waited for the taxi he had the inn call for. They went back to the convention center, where the crowds and were long gone, but the Arbiter, Florence's father, and Walter were still sitting around.

They all turned to look at them as they approached. "I found him," Florence said, a little sheepishly.

"I asked you to be back before the game started," the Arbiter pointed out.

"I tried," Florence said. "He's going to keep playing. Right?"

"Right," Freddie reluctantly agreed.

"Perfect," Walter said, clapping his hands. "See, I was telling you, Mr. Arbiter, we can make this work for us. Drama keeps people interested."

The Arbiter waved him away. "I expect both of you to be here on time tomorrow. Am I understood?"

"Perfectly," Florence said.

"Good," he nodded. "I'm going to bed."

The rest of them agreed that he had the right idea. A little awkwardly, the two groups walked to the doors of the convention center together and then parted ways. As they did so, Florence's father leveled Freddie with a piercing glare. Freddie was pretty sure he wanted him dead. That was going to make Florence's plan of talking after the tournament a little harder.

"Everything alright?" Walter asked conversationally as they walked. 

"Yeah," Freddie sighed. "…The last tournament was so easy. I mean, it wasn't but—it was so much easier knowing who the bad guy was, y'know?"

Walter hummed in acknowledgment. "Well, maybe this time there isn't one."

Yeah. Maybe.

As per the Arbiter's request, Freddie and Florence were both on time to the game the following day. When it ended in another draw, he knew this tournament was going to drag on until the very last game, but maybe he didn't mind that so much. It gave him time to try out the spas, which he had to admit were pretty good. It gave him opportunities to keep seeing Florence, even if they couldn't really talk. That could come later, she said. As they stayed neck and neck, Freddie stopped caring so much about the results. He started enjoying the games, just like he had years ago when he first asked Florence to work for him.

And when he did leave Merano without the world championship title, it only stung a little bit.