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Spencer’s not quite sure what he’s expecting.
Most likely nothing. In all probability, absolutely nothing.
People don’t go to chess tournaments with the expectation of meeting someone. They go to bars, clubs, the gym even. But those aren’t places Spencer has ever been comfortable in, has ever thought that there was the possibility of there being someone. All he can think about when he’s at a bar is how loud the music is, how sticky the floor is, how close all of the random strangers are. Clubs are even worse, and the gym is a resounding no.
He often thinks that if things were different, if he was different, it would be a possibility. If he was like Derek, he could do it. Just meet someone. Anyone. Derek makes it look so easy.
But Spencer doesn’t want just anyone.
So, now, he’s at this chess tournament and he’s not quite sure about it. About anything.
He put a little extra effort into his appearance today, double and triple-checking in the mirror before leaving, though he was still left dissatisfied with what he saw. It didn’t make any sense, he wasn’t sure why he was doing it. There was just this sense. This sense of expectation.
Spencer doesn’t like getting his hopes up. Every time he does, they’re always crushed into the finest sort of powder imaginable, pieces so small that there’s no hope for repair.
So now, he goes in with the lowest expectations possible. It’s just the safest way, the only way.
Except for today. It’s just a feeling. The vaguest sense of a feeling.
Spencer doesn’t believe in feelings, in premonitions, but he can’t stop it.
The tournament is outdoors in the park on one of the most beautiful days of the year. He tries not to read it as a sign. Spencer doesn’t believe in signs. It’s just an exceptionally brilliant day with lovely weather. That’s all.
He watches a few games, studying the ways that different people play. It’s always fascinating to see how the game of chess presents itself, how individual tells and characteristics can be seen through each and every move that someone makes. Eventually, he finds himself in the middle of his own game, lost in concentration as he often gets.
It’s the best distraction from this feeling that he could find. Anything to get rid of this expectation, to prepare himself for disappointment.
From what?
He’s not quite sure.
***
You’re not quite sure what you’re expecting.
You just have this feeling. Long ago you’ve learned to trust them when they come. They might not make any sense, might be confusing as all hell, but they’re there for a reason.
It feels like today is going to be big. You’re not quite sure what that means, but you decide to roll with it.
You don’t even play chess. Sure, you know the rules vaguely, could probably hold your own in a very amateur game, but you most certainly are not qualified to play in a tournament.
Watching it, however? You can do that.
It’s not most people’s idea of a fun way to spend the weekend. You’re well aware of that, but there’s something about it. It’s just so fascinating to watch, to see how engrossed people get in the game. To see the joy on their faces, the absolute attentiveness.
You find it quite compelling, for some strange reason.
Today it’s even better. It feels like a sign. The sun is shining, the wind is blowing gently, everyone is grinning at one another in this gorgeous park. Well, everyone except for the people focused on their games, completely absorbed.
You find yourself drawn to one game in particular. Or, more accurately, one person in particular.
He’s beautiful, there’s no other way around it, but it’s more than that. The sunlight is hitting his face just so, illuminating his sharp cheekbones and lighting up his honey-colored eyes as they study the chess board intently. His lithe fingers move the pieces around expertly before returning to their home under his chin. He’s ethereal. That’s the word you finally settle on.
You study him for a few minutes before pulling your sketchbook out of your bag. Leafing through the cluttered pages, you find a blank one and get to work.
There’s nothing quite like it, getting lost in the act of sketching. You start with broad strokes, charcoal lightly scratching across the page. His hair is tousled, moving slightly with the breeze. You try your best to capture it, the way the curls fly up, dropping back down to frame his face. Then it’s the cheekbones, the sharp jawline.
You lose yourself in your drawing, hand flying faster than you can think as you glance between the paper and the man in front of you.
It’s difficult to put such a living, breathing embodiment of art down on a page, but you never were one to shy away from a challenge.
***
Spencer wins his game (as is to be expected) and as he rises from the table, he notices it. The feeling, the one from before, is back.
He’s being ridiculous. That’s what he keeps telling himself. Too many sleepless nights, too much caffeine. Something, anything, to explain this absurd feeling.
But then he sees you.
Your head is buried in a book or journal of some sort, your hand moving rapidly across the page. Charcoal is smeared across your hand, another smudge on your cheek. The wind picks up your hair before dropping it back down in front of your eyes. He watches as you push it back, giving yourself another streak of charcoal, this time on your forehead.
You’re a mess and Spencer is certain he’s never seen anyone more beautiful.
He finds himself moving without thinking, walking towards you. It’s not something he would usually do, approach a random stranger, but he feels compelled.
He blames it on this goddamn feeling.
You look up from your sketchbook, and Spencer watches how your eyes go wide, your face disappointed. He turns to follow your line of sight. You’re staring directly at the bench that he was sitting on.
Spencer doesn’t know what that means, but that feeling in his chest somehow grows louder.
You let out a huff of air, turning your attention back to your work. It’s only when Spencer is next to you that he realizes what you’re doing, that he sees what you’re drawing.
It’s him.
Or at least, an exquisite, idealized version of him. It’s certainly not what he sees when he looks in the mirror. You’ve managed to make his messy, untamed curls look soft, tousled and almost touchable. The perpetual shadows under his eyes are there, but they somehow only serve to add depth to his face, to highlight his eyes and cheekbones. You’ve even captured his hands, the way he folds them under his chin when he’s deep in concentration. They look steady, graceful even.
Spencer finds himself wishing he looked like the drawing you’ve created, but then he realizes something.
For some strange, unknown reason, you were compelled to draw him.
It doesn’t make any sense.
He finally snaps out of his stupor when you finish your work, adding one final stroke and smudging one last shadow with your finger.
“Is that-” he finds himself saying before he comes to his senses. “Is that me?”
He knows it is. It looks like him. Well, at least it kind of does. It looks like him if he were beautiful, maybe.
You look up with a start, practically jumping off of the bench. Spencer’s mentally smacking himself for his complete lack of grace, prepared to run for the hills, when you break into the widest smile he’s ever seen.
“There you are!” you say as though you’ve known each other for your entire lives. “I was afraid I lost you.”
Spencer stammers for a moment, completely at a loss for words. You don’t seem deterred by this, simply patting the space on the bench beside you.
He sits down without thinking. He has to. There’s just this feeling.
You turn your sketchbook toward him, eyes gleaming. “It is you. I hope that’s not too weird. I just- I like drawing beautiful things and I just had to draw you.”
Spencer must have misheard you. He blinks at you, his eyes somehow growing wider by the second. Finally, his mouth catches up to his thoughts. “B-beautiful things?”
“Mhm.” You nod. “You’re beautiful.” He’s still staring and you laugh quietly, but not unkindly. “Sorry if that was super blunt. Lately I’ve been trying not to mince my words so much. Better to just say what I feel, right?”
Spencer still doesn’t quite know what to say. He’s never been called beautiful before, never seen himself the way that you’ve apparently seen him. It’s doing something wildy unfamiliar to his heart, to his head, to his everything. The words fail to come, so he settles for giving you another smile and a nod.
“God,” you say under your breath, studying his face. “Can I draw you again? Do you mind?” The look he gives you must show how confused he is, because you continue, “You’re just- there’s even more detail up close.”
Despite his genius IQ, despite his endless vocabulary, he’s still floundering, grasping for a response. Any response. “Uh, yeah, um, sure. That’s- that’s fine.” Really smooth. “I’m Spencer, by the way.”
You glance back up from the blank page of your sketchbook, eyes wide. “Oh my god, I didn’t even introduce myself before I begged you to model for me. I’m so sorry. I’m Y/N.”
Spencer repeats your name quietly, unable to keep the smile from spreading across his face again. He’s staring at you, at the charcoal smudged across your face, at the radiant grin you’re sending his way.
“It’s really nice to meet you, Spencer,” you say, turning your attention back to your sketchbook, charcoal in hand once more.
“You too, Y/N.”
It feels like the understatement of the century.
You get to work again, starting with broad strokes across the page. The chatter comes easily once Spencer settles in, once he gets used to the feeling that his entire world has just been permanently changed. You talk about chess, about books, about anything and everything that comes to mind. It feels like second nature, like maybe you really have known each other for your entire lives.
Spencer finds himself turning towards your sketchbook, trying to get a glimpse of your work. He’s desperate to see himself through your eyes, to see what exactly captivated you to draw him, what drew you to him out of all of the people here.
“Mm-mm,” you murmur, grabbing his chin gently and turning his face back towards the sunlight. “No moving.”
He laughs despite himself, startled by just how much he loves the feel of your hands on him and how much he wishes they would never leave.
Much too quickly for Spencer’s liking, you’re finished with your drawing. You study it with a critical eye before declaring, “Done!”
He finally dares to drop the pose you had placed him in, eyes darting across the page. It’s another exquisite sketch, this one much more close up than the first. There’s somehow even more detail, more movement in his hair, more life in his eyes. He doesn’t understand how you’ve done it, how you looked at him and saw something worthy of being turned into art.
“Is that-” he starts, unsure exactly how to phrase the one question that is consuming his thoughts. “Is that really what I look like?”
“Of course it is!” You laugh before realizing just how serious he is and furrowing your brows. “Wait, you really don’t think you look like this?”
“I- I don’t know. You made me- um, you made me look like- like art.” It’s not the most eloquent explanation, but it’s the only one Spencer can come up with.
Your eyes soften as you study him again. “Oh, Spencer. You are. I promise.” You hand him the sketchbook suddenly, still open to the last drawing, and he accepts it unsteadily. “Look at your bone structure.” You reach towards him as he tries to keep his eyes fixed on the sketch, your finger tracing first his eyebrow, then down his cheekbone, and finally across his jaw. He’s acutely aware of the fact that he’s holding his breath. “And your hair has these subtle highlights, and those beautiful curls.” You brush one strand off his face, and he’s suddenly wishing your hands could be in his hair for the rest of his life. “And your eyes, they just- there’s so much in them, Spencer. When the light hits them just so, it’s like I can see everything.” Your thumb sweeps over the shadow under his eye before you pull your hand away, letting out a nervous giggle. “God, I’m sorry. I must seem like the creepiest stranger in the world.”
“No- no, you don’t,” Spencer rushes to say. “You’re- you’re incredible. That’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me- about me.”
Your voice is quiet when you trace your fingers over his cheekbone once again. “I meant it.”
It feels like something big is happening. Something monumental, life altering. Spencer reaches up before he can stop himself, placing his hand over yours. It feels right, like it’s meant to be there.
“I had a feeling,” you say suddenly, “that today was going to be big.”
“I did too.” Spencer grins back at you, his eyes shining in the sunlight as he studies your face once more. The charcoal smudges, the messy hair, the luminous smile.
All at once, everything makes sense.
It’s more than he could have ever expected. You’re more than he could have ever expected.
Spencer had a feeling.