Chapter Text
—1—
Florence sat quietly, looking at her own reflection in the dark screen of the television in front of her. She and Freddie had returned from the press conference no more than an hour ago, and they still had yet to really speak of it. There was a silent understanding between the two of them that what had happened was not what either of them wanted, but neither of them could bring themselves to discuss it.
Thus, they had occupied themselves separately for the moment- Freddie had gone to take a "quick shower" to "clear his head", but at that point, Florence had been sitting alone in the main room for nearly the entire hour they had been back. She had periodically knocked on the door to the bathroom, asking if he was close to being done, but he would simply reply with a noncommittal "almost" and proceed to stay inside.
Florence sighed. She felt as if they both knew that they would have to talk about it eventually, and a part of her really couldn't fathom why Freddie was being so avoidant about it. It wasn't as if they particularly disagreed about what happened; at least, she greatly hoped that they shared perspectives. It wouldn't make sense if they didn't, she reasoned to herself.
A brief thought flickered within her mind- how sad it was that she was questioning how well she knew Freddie. For years, she hadn't questioned anything between them, but now…
She tried to stamp out the thought.
On the coffee table before her were the newspapers from earlier, feeling almost mockingly illuminated by the sliver of sunset light spilling in from behind the curtains. The titles stood out to her more than before- they had only fed into the spirit of the press today. Yet, as much as Florence felt he had recently been feeding into the spirit of the press on purpose, today felt different. His eccentric nature turned erratic, and even if it might bring more of that stir he seemed to be reaching for, she felt as if it wasn't what he wanted out of it.
The same thought she had tried to cast away returned. How well did she really know Freddie anymore?
Meanwhile, Freddie had been mulling in the shower over much of the same thoughts. He had lost himself a bit in the press conference, and he was fully aware of that. It just felt like the reporters were getting into his head in a way that they hadn't really been able to before; something about it threw him off of his usual game. Maybe it was the atmosphere: the constant flashing of lights, what felt like hundreds of voices and faces all clamoring to get a headline out of him, and the underlying anxiety of knowing how it might all be used against him.
Freddie had never truly been under that kind of pressure before. Not with all those factors combined, at the very least. He always had the upper hand with the press, but today, it felt like they were dissecting him alive, inspecting every little part of him, and trying to pick which pieces of him they felt would be most beneficial and flavorful to gorge themselves on.
Fundamentally, it wasn't too different from most of the media engagements he had back in the US. But, maybe that's where the difference lied- it was foreign. Those reporters could have had a foreign agenda against him.
Thinking of Florence in relation to it all only made his doubts run deeper. Florence had merely stood behind him as he had been hounded. He only heard her truly speak up after he had lost his head and hit a reporter on live television. It antagonized her image a bit in his mind. Why did she not come to stand by him, as she unfailingly always had before? Why hadn't she bothered to help both him and his image? Was she siding with someone else; the enemy who he feared was fueling the reporters?
He scoffed to no one in particular, a bitter frown overtaking his prior contemplative expression. Maybe she was out to get him too, in her own way. They hadn't been getting along terribly well for the past few months, and he had been focusing more on his media personality a bit more as well. Maybe Florence was the bitter, scheming one, and he was just being unfairly targeted by her, he reasoned.
Then, Freddie mulled over that thought for another minute, and decided that it was perhaps a bit too extreme. He was letting his anxieties get the best of him- it was a bad habit of his and he knew it. They were together for a reason, and he'd be damned if he was going to throw it all away over a messy interview.
Sighing, he reached forwards to shut off the shower. He wasn't going to get anywhere by standing in a hotel shower for the rest of the night, and he wasn't really feeling very soothed by it anymore. Stepping out of the shower, he looked at his figure in the slightly hazy mirror. His skin was a bit red from the heat of the water, and his hair, although not sitting completely flat against his head, had less volume than he liked it to when it was dry. Despite the fact that he couldn't exactly see himself clearly in the absence of his glasses, which were still far too foggy to put back on, something about his appearance made him feel displeased with himself.
Averting his gaze from himself, Freddie took one of the towels he had set aside on the counter, and started to dry off.
Florence, having heard the shower and ventilator be turned off, felt a mix of relief and anxiety. Now that he was finally coming out of the shower, they'd be able to talk and reconcile, which was exactly what Florence wanted. However, a part of her knew that it wouldn't go smoothly.
Freddie emerged from the bathroom in a fresh set of clothes and a towel set on his shoulders to catch any stray water from his hair. Florence turned to look at him from her spot in front of the television.
"Nothing on right now?" he said, walking over to her.
"Nothing that isn't about the conference, which I'm guessing you don't want to see," replied Florence, "but that doesn't mean we shouldn't talk about it. I don't want to call today your fault, but…you weren't helping your case at all."
"Oh, come on. You were there, Florence- you heard them, you saw them. They were basically out to get me the whole time!" exclaimed Freddie, his agitation beginning to rise already. As much as he may have tried to convince himself just a few minutes prior to be reasonable, he couldn't help himself whenever Florence started immediately with something he saw as accusatory. "They barely bothered with any questions that weren't clearly attacks on me."
"You've experienced vultures of reporters before, Freddie. That's what they do, and normally, you play them well," said Florence. Her tone didn't yet rise to match her partner's sharpness, but there was an underlying firmness to her words that clearly indicated agitation on her side. "At the end of the day, you lost it in front of the cameras. I could care less about our public image, as that seems to be more of your fascination, but punching one of the reporters? What were you thinking?"
He stiffened at her words, pausing for a moment. In all honesty, he wasn't thinking in that moment. It was an immediate action made almost in the same way people have reflexes, but he couldn't just stay silent. It would incriminate him worse than saying something wrong. "It- it got the point across," he replied, still aggressive but sounding rather lackluster.
"What, that you're losing your mind?" she retorted sharply.
"That they were the crazy ones, Florence! That they deserved what was coming," he groaned, his words exuding a grinding exasperation. "I mean, come on- I heard what you said after. You're not on their side- you're supposed to be on mine. What point are you even trying to make here?"
She stood from the sofa. "I'm trying to get it across to you that what happened today was out of style for you, Freddie-"
"All you're doing is antagonizing me! That's all you seem to have the spirit to do with me anymore!" he interrupted harshly, stepping forwards to meet her more closely. "You should be concerned for me, Florence. I know you are, so just say it to me. Express it. We'd be closer if it weren't for you being so dedicated to arguing with me all of the time!"
"I'm concerned for you in ways that won't please your ego."
"I'm sick of you trying to coddle me, anyways. You're not my mother- just say it." The phrase stung coming out of Freddie's mouth. It was a common phrase, but it didn't feel right to apply it to himself.
A moment of silence passed between them, as Florence took in a deep breath and tried to recenter herself. Admittedly, she had somewhat lost control of herself as well, and was beginning to lose the point of why she wanted to talk to Freddie in the first place. But, she wasn't going to just leave her grievances and concerns unspoken.
"You've lost yourself in more ways than one. You and I used to be close because we had a genuine connection built over something you seem to have forgotten- chess. Sure, you're the current World Champion, but you only started to really lose it when they criticized your playing. You're a confident person and player. Something like that wouldn't usually shake you so bad," she began, her voice steady, but in a way that was clearly forced. "You're obsessed with making yourself out to be a face in the media. I try to avoid it all as much as I can, but I still see all of the tabloids and advertisements you put yourself into. All for what? Popularity and money?
"We've been together for seven years, as partners and players. I just feel like recently, you've changed for the worse. You've always been brash and maybe a bit too volatile for my taste, but I saw a spirited player beneath all of that, and I felt a spark. We had a connection, one that I thought I knew intimately. But something's changed, Freddie. That's where my concerns are- the press conference today was just a confirmation for me. The nail in the coffin, the straw that broke the camel's back, whichever of the million idioms and sayings that you want to use."
A searing displeasure and anger began to simmer in Freddie. "You're spouting nonsense. One minute, you're going on about how you think I don't care about chess. Then, you start calling me crazy, saying I've lost it. Or, maybe you've just never liked me and it's only now that it's- that I'm- starting to bother you. Wait, actually, it might just be that I'm making my own choices about my own life! If you're gonna try and rip me apart, at least make a consistent attempt."
"Freddie, can't you just cooperate for once- why does everything have to be an argument between us?"
"You wanna cooperate? Then stop blaming me for everything." 'Even the things that might really be my fault,' Freddie thought. "I get it. I'm a fucking asshole that nobody really likes; a guy that everyone just loves to watch put on his fez and smash his cymbals together on TV, before doing a complete 180 to playing chess like a genius and winning. But you're a problem in your own way. You just can't ever shut up about how much you hate me now."
"God- can't we just…" Florence trailed off, pausing for a minute. They were getting into the same cycle they always did: tossing the blame back and forth between them. They both knew that they both had problems, and yet they both also wanted to be the one to still somehow be 'better'.
Freddie gave her a sharp glare, but she knew what it meant. As much as they had been arguing constantly for the past while, they still understood each other enough to be able to read each other. It always felt like this: they were in agreement about something, but they just couldn't stop fighting over it. Florence wanted to just come to terms on something, in the same way that Freddie wanted to. And, he also wanted to be the 'better' person in the relationship at the end of it.
Before either of them could speak up, however, a knock on the door resounded through the room.
—2—
Both of them turned to look at the door, which had been opened regardless of the lack of response or answer from either of them. It frustrated them both equally, but the man who stepped into the room elicited a different reaction from each of them.
It was Walter, clad in a slick- too slick for Florence's taste- suit, with an equally practiced expression on his face.
"Not now, Walter!" groaned Freddie, trudging towards the doorway with the clear intention of shoving the other man out of the room. "Can't you just wait a minute? Why do you always have to be coming to talk to me about something?"
"We agreed that we'd talk an hour after you got back. It's been a little over that," replied Walter. His tone wasn't empty or emotionless, but it was perhaps a bit too diplomatic and calm to be called particularly genuine. As much as it reminded Freddie of the success he had finally come upon in his life, it also reminded him of the uncomfortable presence the man had in his life.
Walter was around fifteen or so years older than Freddie, who had just turned twenty-nine last month. Though the latter man never cared to ask or truly investigate how old his delegation leader and media agent was, that was what he had figured out from what he knew of the man. Besides that, Walter certainly looked to be around his forties. He was not what one would call particularly attractive or unattractive, with a rather average appearance. His eyes, though, contained a sharpness within that suggested something more to him than being just an average man.
The American had first been introduced to this man a few years ago, when he had first begun to settle into notoriety. His then soon-to-be-manager had come knocking on his and Florence's apartment door, and without a moment of hesitation, had stepped inside once it opened. Walter had never really left since.
"Yeah, well I need more time. You can wait, so get out," Freddie grumbled, reaching forwards to try and shove Walter out. His agent simply stepped out of the way, closing the door behind him.
"I could wait, but I don't think I should wait to talk about what happened at the press conference earlier."
"God, can anyone shut up about the damn conference-"
"You chose to put yourself on TV. Nobody ever shuts up about what happens on TV, because the people like you who go on all the time never shut up. Besides, what I have to say is only somewhat negative. It's half-criticism, half-praise," goaded Walter, clearly trying to tempt Freddie with the notion of a good word or two. "Better than what your lover-girl over here has probably been saying to you."
Freddie bristled at his agent's words, but before he could get a word in, his second spoke first.
"You're not much better. You say some of the most volatile things on the news with a cheery little smile and a marketable jingle to accent it," Florence interjected, stepping forwards. Whether on purpose or not, she and Freddie had blocked Walter's way to get into the rest of the suite. "Just get on with whatever it is you have to say."
"So that you two can get on with your shouting match? God knows you aren't getting on in any other ways anymore," Walter chuckled sardonically, "as much as the press loves to pick apart at your relationship, even they've started to notice how messy things are getting. They can't get love stories out of you two anymore."
Freddie scoffed, his fist curling. "If you aren't going to get out, at least just get to the damn point."
Sighing, though still with a self-pleased grin on his face, Walter put his hands together and pointed vaguely forwards. It was an odd motion in concept, but Freddie had seen it so often among media agents like Walter that he had never really questioned it. "Look, what happened today wasn't…planned, I'm sure we're all aware. But, Freddie, you've always been a brash character for the screen. A splash of aggression that tabloids just love to eat up. We could take this in a new direction; have you 'act out' more often in front of the camera-"
"Are you seriously pitching a media deal after Freddie assaulted a reporter?!" Florence exclaimed incredulously, not waiting even a moment to interrupt. She already knew that Walter was the type of man to stop at nearly nothing if it meant making an extra dollar, but it seemed like he could one-up himself with every new proposition.
"It's not a deal, just an idea. It'll net us some good money, which I'm sure Freddie isn't averse to the company of," said Walter, turning his gaze to the mildly bewildered American. "It's what I'm here to do. Broadcast something entertaining and make you some nice money."
"Money, money, money- I've not talked to you much, but on the few unfortunate occasions that I have, it's just all been about money. Do you live for anything else?" said Florence.
"I live for the television, too."
"What is wrong with you?"
"I suppose you wouldn't get it, Miss Vassy. We operate differently in the States," said Walter casually, shrugging. His gaze switched over to Freddie, who still seemed to be processing the earlier proposition. "Well? What does the media diva think?"
Freddie's expression twisted sourly. "Don't call me that again. And I think it's a stupid idea. It doesn't feel right to me." He spoke, acting remarkably more subdued than before. It was clear that he had been doing some thinking that had dampened his spirit.
"Are you sure?" pushed Walter, almost trying to goad Freddie into second guessing himself. "You're going to have to do something about it. Might as well choose the profitable path."
"Or he could just issue an apology. Make a public statement or something that," interjected Florence. "He doesn't always have to 'optimize monetization' and 'expand to a wider demographic appeal' or whatever crap you and your associates are always chattering on about."
"Or maybe you could both shut up for a minute and let me pick. Crazy idea, I know," Freddie spoke, sounding exhausted with them both. But, as always, his anger and frustration were beginning to flare. "Walter, shut up with your money deals. I don't want any right now and I'm a little too pissed to think about them. Florence, you just shut up in general. That's what I want!"
"Oh, it's always what you want. What happened to cooperating? You were whining about that not even ten minutes ago!" Florence exclaimed, finally reaching her breaking point. She tried to formulate another statement, but ultimately, decided against it. Instead, she began to stride towards the door to leave. She had her own suite anyways.
As she opened the door, she turned to look her player dead in the eyes. "You sound like a child, Freddie. Did you know that?"
—3—
Walter had left not too long after Florence once he realized that Freddie was going to be completely uncooperative. He said something or another about Freddie eventually 'coming around', but was ignored. The American was not intent on listening to anyone besides himself for the moment.
Florence was doing nothing but arguing with him. Walter was being annoyingly pragmatic and seemed a little too eager to try and exploit Freddie's instability for the sake of money.
He sighed, and ran a hand through his nearly dry hair. He would get over it soon- he always had. Soon enough, he'd be sitting with Florence again and chatting with her over a game, and all would be well between them for a few hours. Soon enough, he'd be trying to arrange a new deal with Walter, without having to try and sell his unstable condition. Freddie would get to be casual and sarcastic with his second like he was before the press conference, and Walter would stop being invasive.
He and Florence were together for a reason. Walter was his agent for a reason. It would all work out once he was able to take control of himself again and manage to retain his title.
Freddie felt like he was able to somewhat convince himself that everything would eventually be okay. Everything would probably be fine regarding them. And yet, he wasn't able to console himself where the core of all of his insecurities seemed to be coming from lately.
He couldn't convince himself that he would be able to beat the Russian.
They said that the Russian Grandmaster was unbeatable. They said that he was a player that couldn't be shaken at the board. They said that Freddie would lose, and that he should have just resigned the title beforehand and spared himself the shame. These insecurities tore up his confidence into shreds on the inside, and went on to ruin his certainty about everything else.
It all felt like so much noise clogging up his mind.
Freddie let out a strained groan, sitting on the edge of his bed and throwing himself back onto it. He took off his glasses, throwing them carelessly onto the pillows next to him. His eyes fell shut, and he folded his hands over them.
Why couldn't he ever just make his thoughts go quiet for a moment? It was always something or another that threw him into agitation, and he hadn't been without that feeling for so long. What used to be his escapes- playing chess, being with Florence, being in the media- were all beginning to make it worse.
But maybe winning would make it all better. Maybe winning would mean that everything would be okay again. He'd have all the success in the world, and he'd send the Russian scampering home with broken dreams and a destroyed sense of self. He hoped to whatever being out there that would still care to listen to someone like him that his opponent would be the one to get crushed.
Freddie opened his eyes, and glanced at the clock at his bedside. It read 20:00, and despite the fact that there was only some rather simple math to do to convert the time, it only made him more frustrated.
"Only eight?" he murmured, "barely late enough to go to bed." He then thought about the events that were to come, and convinced himself that maybe going to bed before it becomes unbelievably late might be a better move. He needed to get into a more normal sleep schedule to accommodate for how early in the day all of the games would be happening.
Besides, Freddie wanted to be up and fully awake in time to watch his opponent’s press conference the next day.