Chapter Text
“Ow! Damn it! Harry!” Beth yells, stumbling down the stairs before stomping over and jerking open the door. “I told you to leave me alo--“ she’s cut short by the sight of the person in front of her.
“Benny?”
“What the hell happened to your face?” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth.
“What-- what are you doing here?” she sputters.
“Harry called,” Benny replies. “He’s worried about you. And if he’s worried, I definitely am.”
Beth rolls her eyes. “Yes, I know how worried Harry is. I’ve gotten that lecture already. Are you here to lecture me as well? Tell me that I’m spiraling out of control and ruining my life?”
“Aren’t you? Because from where I’m standing, that seems pretty accurate.”
She stares him down. The anger, petulance, zero-fucks left to give attitude, and, if she was honest with herself, embarrassment she felt when Harry confronted her are not there. She doesn’t see pity in the coffee-colored eyes returning her gaze. Instead, it’s determination. It’s love. Bitter shame simmers beneath the surface of her skin as her eyes flit behind Benny. Beth’s not an idiot. She knows what she looks like - what a pathetic fucking drunk she is. It’s hard to look at Benny knowing he’s seeing first hand the worst of her.
“Look, I understand why you didn’t want to come back to New York after Paris. I let it go when you still didn't come because you were taking care of this house and had things to do and maybe you just didn’t want to make the trip. But then you weren’t answering your phone for ages and then Harry called... to say I was worried is putting it lightly. I was-- I was afraid you’d gone and done something stupid.”
Beth’s stomach drops. She thinks back to waking up after being knocked out cold for hours, and her mind brings forward that fateful day over a decade ago.
Close your eyes.
The words still haunt her. To think even for a second Benny had to fear she was going to meet a similar end - Beth wouldn’t wish that kind of fear on her worst enemy let alone the man in front of her.
Sure, a short blackout wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but hearing two people - two people she knows on some level care about her - tell her the same thing within hours, even she’s not so far gone to ignore that.
She sighs, “For what it's worth, I didn’t have a drink the second I walked through the door. I meant it when I said I was doing fine the last time we talked. But since then, I’ll admit things...haven’t been great.”
“Why don’t you let me in and we can go from there?”
Beth hesitates just for a moment before letting the door swing open and taking a step back. Once inside, Benny sets down his luggage by the stairs and eyes the living room. There are empty bottles and beer cans littering every surface, and a few dozen cigarette butts are in random empty glasses around the room. Clothes are strewn, half eaten food containers are piled on the piano, and random chess pieces can be found scattered around the coffee table. A few steps more and he swears he can see some rather unpleasant substance in one of her chess trophies.
“Nice house,” he deadpans.
Looking at her destroyed home from Benny’s perspective, she’s mortified.
“Like I said, things haven’t been great.”
“Does the upstairs look any better?”
“A little, but not much.”
“Well, point me to the garbage bags. I’ll take down here and you can tackle up there.”
It’s dark by the time the two chess champions are eating pizza in a much cleaner kitchen. Beth still needs to drop her damaged Bulova off at a repair shop, but she’s wiped off that god-awful makeup and you can see the carpet once again.
“I was...ashamed,” Beth finally says. “After Paris. That’s why I didn’t-- couldn’t go back to New York. I had just spent the last five weeks without a drop of liquor and all it took was one week away to fall back into old habits. I wasn’t strong enough to say no even when I knew I should. Even when I knew I was playing Borgov the next day and after you had worked so hard to help me. Some part of me knew what would happen, but I still convinced myself it would be different. That I really could just have one drink like a normal person. But...” she trails off. They both know what happened.
“I couldn’t face you after that. I let myself down. And I let you down, and somehow that was worse. I’m sorry.”
He nods his acceptance before clearing his throat, “What about this last time? What happened?”
“It was the day we last spoke. That night I was studying the game pamphlets from the last Moscow Invitational like you told me to and took a break for dinner. There was nothing in the fridge, so I went out to a restaurant. It was pretty much the same thing as Paris. I ordered a Gibson, Alma’s drink of choice, telling myself I would have just one. But there was a singer and a pianist. For a moment, it brought me back to listening to mother play,” she looks forlorn at the piano over Benny’s shoulder.
“Too many drinks later and a trip to Lex Liquors, it was downhill from there. Haven’t really been sober since.”
Two months, Benny thinks, devastated. He should have come sooner. He didn’t want to think the worst of Beth. He wanted to be wrong - wanted her to just be blowing him off again instead of at the bottom of the bottle. His focus remains on the food in his hand, contemplating his response.
“Addiction is complicated,” he eventually says, eyes meeting hers. “I don’t know how deep the drinking goes for you, but I think it’s a safe bet that you’ve been doing it a lot longer than not. We can work on it if you’re willing. I can help you, keep you accountable. Be someone you can go to when you get tempted, and we both know you will. But that’s okay. Sobriety is a process and you’re going to slip up here and there. The most important thing is you keep going and keep trying. Just like chess - just like trying to beat Borgov. Sometimes he’s going to win because that’s what the world is used to, but you will beat him in Moscow. And you will beat this.”
She nods, “I want to try.”
Benny looks at her, a small smile of pride gracing his lips, “The first step is always the hardest." He deliberates for a moment before saying, "If you don’t mind me asking, when did it start?”
Beth is only able to look into his eyes for a beat before they flit back to her hands. She doesn't answer right away, fiddling with the crust she had been munching on. Benny doesn't rush her, allowing the silence to blanket over them as she thinks. She takes another bite and swallows, following it with a gulp of water. Decisively, she puts down her food, dusting the crumbs from her fingers and wiping off the grease with a napkin. Beth walks into the bathroom silently, coming back a moment later with one of the many glass bottles in her medicine cabinet.
She sets it on the table, green pills rattling as they make contact.
“I was eight,” she says, softly.
“Eight?”
Her eyes flick to Benny. His face is complete shock. Horror. An underlying current of pity she resents with every fiber of her being.
“Not by choice - not at first.”
“What does that mean?”
“My mother died when I was eight. My real mother - biological,” she adds when she sees Benny’s confusion. "I was sent to an orphanage, Methuen, and they made us take tranquilizers to ‘even our disposition’ as they liked to say.”
“They gave tranquilizers to children? That’s…”
“Illegal. Well, now it is. But by the time the laws changed, I was already hooked on them. Everyone I knew there used them as I did - not taking them when we were told and saving them for later to use as we pleased. At times I would take a whole handful at once. I liked the way they made me feel. Still do, clearly. They’re half the reason I got so good at chess,” Beth breathes out a bitter laugh.
“What do you mean?”
“They make your brain...cloudy. Everything’s a haze and in that space I can...” she hesitates. She’s only ever told two people this: Mr. Shaibel and that teacher from the local high school when she was too young to know any better. For some reason it feels deeply personal and part of her that most people wouldn’t understand. Mr. Ganz looked at her like she was a deity. An otherworldly being. But if anyone could understand - really understand - it’s Benny.
“When I’m on them, I see a chessboard on the ceiling,” she pauses, weighing Benny’s reaction.
He just nods, acknowledging and encouraging her to continue.
“I can play game after game, see patterns and possibilities I can’t normally see. The pieces move effortlessly, instinctually. Even when I wasn’t practicing with Mr. Shaibel in the basement, I could still play. They make me a better player. Even better than normally.”
“That’s hard to believe,” he says with a scoff.
“It’s true. Every hard game I’ve won I’ve been on them. I was losing against Beltik until I stepped away to take a couple. Sometimes I think if I had just taken an extra one or two I could have beaten you the first time around.
“Anyway, I had stopped for a while. There was an...incident after the pills were banned for children. Tried to steal a whole jar-full at age 10, but it didn’t really work out. After that, they kept an eye on me. It took weeks to get through the withdrawal. I didn’t touch them again until I got adopted and Alma had me pick up her prescriptions. Imagine my surprise when they were the same little green pills. The first time, I didn’t even have to think. It wasn’t a question of if I should or if I shouldn’t. I stole half of them, and every time I would go pick up a refill for her, it was a refill for me as well. That kept me going for years.
“The drinking came later,” she continues. “Something about it always fascinated me. The smell, the way people said it tasted and made you feel. Then my mother - Alma - let me have a little here, a little there as young as 16. And, well, I’m sure you can guess the rest. It’s safe to say I have a pretty addictive personality.”
A moment passes as Benny absorbs the information.
“How many of these bottles do you have?” he eventually asks, picking up the container and turning it over in his hands, pills softly clinking as they shift.
“Dozens.”
“How?”
“Mexico. After Alma died, all I wanted was to not think for a while. Apparently, you don’t need a prescription to buy these there. I...stocked up,” she admits.
Benny stares at the pills. “Show me.”
She leads him back into the bathroom and slides the mirror aside to show him the five full bottles stored there.
“You said dozens.”
Beth nods and steps out of the bathroom, leading Benny into her bedroom. She kneels beside the bed and pulls out a large, thin cardboard box. Opening it, rows and rows of bottles are neatly packed in.
Benny can't help a barely audible gasp. “Shit, Beth.”
“I know.”
It’s one thing to hear “dozens” but to see them staring back at him. It’s-- It’s heartbreaking. Addicted at age 8? Beth never stood a chance. Benny sits down on the other side of the box, back leaning against the bed. A hand reaches up to brush his floppy hair back away from his eyes.
“Well, I think this is a good place to start. We’ve got a lot of pills to flush,” he looks at her with a small smile. “We’ll get through this together, okay?”
Beth looks back at him, and Benny reaches over to wipe a silent tear that’s made its way down her cheek. “Thank you, Benny.”
"Anytime."