Work Text:
May 1987
It’s been two years since Florence started talking to him again.
It doesn’t happen often. They live in different countries now. Freddie wouldn’t mind footing the bill for a long-distance phone call or two, but he’s trying not to push his luck. Mostly, they see each other at tournaments. They get lunch, or coffee, and the conversation doesn’t stray much from chess. And that’s fair—that’s what he’s good at, the only thing Freddie knows he can talk about reliably without screwing up.
She’s holding him at a distance, he knows. He sits with it. He lets her make the invitations. He tries to be careful. There are very few people in his life he’s ever felt the need to be careful with, and maybe that’s why he never had any friends. Maybe that’s why it had been so devastating, so world-shaking when he lost Florence.
Apparently, it isn’t too late to learn. So says Freddie’s therapist, anyway, and maybe she’s right, because against all odds and beyond anything he deserves, he finds himself with another chance. All he has to do is not blow it again. No pressure.
She goes to a tournament he’s covering in Paris. They chat for a few minutes the day before, but after that, he’s busy with work, and she needs to focus on the tournament. Not that she has anything to worry about—as of two months ago, she’s officially in the running for best chess player in the world. She’ll be fine. And while Freddie doesn’t talk to her much during the course of the week, he does get to do live commentary on all her games, and that’s a fun all its own. As a commentator, Freddie’s job is to be neutral and unbiased. As an entertainer, though, and someone who draws in viewers who have never touched a chessboard in their lives? He has some room to play.
When she wins, Freddie gets to interview her for Global. Walter doesn’t usually send him scripts anymore, but he sends him one for this. Freddie is supposed to talk to her about Seville, and ask her how she’s feeling about her upcoming attempt on the world championship. It would make for juicy TV, and it’s all anyone wants talk about.
Freddie ignores the script. He’ll deal with Walter bitching at him later—he can’t do that to her or himself.
“When do you leave?” she asks once the cameras have stopped rolling.
“I haven’t bought a plane ticket yet,” Freddie says. “I was thinking about hanging out for a little bit, seeing the sights.”
“Freddie Trumper, experiencing some culture,” Florence laughs. She’s in a good mood, and rightly so.
He chuckles and shrugs, his hands in his blazer pockets. “I’m very cultured,” he says. “I can’t go home after this anyway. I have to head to Austria for a few weeks for a book.”
“Do you want to go out tonight, then? You can buy me a drink to congratulate me,” Florence suggests.
Freddie only hesitates for a fraction of a second. “Sounds great,” he says. “No Jaya? I haven’t seen her around.”
“She had family obligations. I just went without a second this time,” she says.
“You’re braver than I ever was,” Freddie says. He never would have gone to an international tournament without her.
Florence already has dinner plans, but she meets Freddie in the lobby of the hotel afterwards, and they walk to a bar recommended by the hotel staff. The whole time, Freddie is puzzling over what to order, but when he’s finally face-to-face with the bartender, he panics and orders a juice.
“What?” Florence asks once the bartender has his back turned.
He snorts at her expression of utter confusion. “I’m trying a new medication,” he says, ducking his head a little. “I’m not really supposed to have alcohol right now.”
Florence gapes at him for a moment. This isn’t something they’ve talked about before. “You could have said something,” she says. “We could have done something else!”
Yeah, well, she’d asked him out for drinks in front of the Global camera crew, so. “It’s fine, I don’t mind,” he assures her. “We’re here to celebrate your win, you should get whatever you want.”
She frowns, but lets it go, which Freddie counts as a win. They take their drinks back to a small table in the corner and catch each other up on what they’ve been spending their time on since they last saw each other.
“I’ve barely left my apartment in three months,” Freddie says. “I’m in the middle of writing a book. It’s taking forever.”
“Another one?” Florence asks. Freddie has no idea if she’s read the others or not. “What is it about?”
“That’s contractually a secret,” Freddie says. He looks to the left and right for show, to see if anyone looks like they care at all. “It’s about Steinitz.”
“Not another collection of best games?” she asks. “I quite liked the last one.” So that answers that question.
“No, I’m tired of those. They make good money, but I think I can do better,” Freddie says. “I’m doing a lot of research for this one. There’s a lot of material out there. My agent says people want my insights, one world champion on another, but I don’t know.”
It’s something new, and he likes it. He likes getting to make something out of his deep dives into chess books. He likes getting to go on location to see what insights he can gain from being there. He’s even doing his own photography now, because Walter won’t lend him a Global photographer for his own projects—he took a class and everything. He’s still a beginner, but he’s starting to learn to enjoy doing things he’s not a grand master at.
Florence chuckles. “I never knew you to be very interested in writing,” she says. “I’m sorry, I always assumed there was a ghost writer involved.”
“Nope. I mean, I have an editor, but that’s it,” he says. “I didn’t used to like it very much, but it’s grown on me. I can write basically whatever I want for the chess magazines, no one is ever going to turn me down. Plus, it’s the only time I have a chance to think about what I want to say before I say it. It’s kinda nice.”
“I know what you mean,” Florence says. “You know, it’s funny. I have a master’s degree in English literature, and you’ve written and published more books than I have.”
“You’ve been busy with other things,” Freddie says.
“Right,” she agrees, but he’s not sure what her tone means.
“Well. What have you been up to?” he asks, squeezing his fingers against his glass. He needs to get another juice, probably.
Florence takes a moment to answer. Her hand comes up to her neck and she threads her fingers through her hair, her gaze off toward the opposite side of the room. “Honestly? Aside from chess, I’ve been spending a lot of time at doctor’s appointments with my father,” she says. “He hasn’t been doing well lately.”
“Oh, shit,” Freddie says, marveling at his ability to step in it so quickly. That might be a new record, actually! “I’m really sorry, Florence.”
She shakes her head. “He was sick when I found him, it isn’t a surprise. His quality of life is much better now, at least. He’s still in good spirits,” she says. This is one of many things they haven’t talked about. Once, Freddie would have known every detail of this whole process—or at least, he would have been told, and then would have forgotten some of it, but still. “I’m sorry, let’s not talk about this now. I don’t want to bring down the mood.”
“You aren’t,” Freddie assures her quickly, but he’s sure not going to make her talk about her dying father while she’s supposed to be celebrating if she doesn’t want to. “Hey—what was up with that Schwab game? Weird, right?”
“I still have no idea what he was thinking!” Florence chuckles, and now they’re in safer territory.
They talk through the tournament and share bits of gossip on the other players—all things considered, the world of professional chess is fairly small. You’re only one or two degrees of separation from anyone else, and word gets around. One player who did unusually badly this tournament is in the middle of a messy divorce; someone else was recently arrested for petty thievery; yet another just landed a minor role in a Hollywood movie.
“Whatever happened to Jameson? You remember him, right, from Portland?” Freddie asks.
“Oh, he quit chess a few years ago,” Florence says. Her laugh is a lot lighter now that she has a couple drinks in her—she’s more relaxed. “He joined a band. Last I heard, they were on tour.”
Freddie is delighted by that mental image. “Maybe that’s what I should do,” he says. “Everyone always says I’m only in this for money and attention, maybe I should just go on tour. I’d probably get tons of money and attention then.”
“I think you would need to play an instrument, at least,” Florence says. “Anyway, you already tried that, remember? You tried to convince me to let you rent a car and go across the country playing 100 simuls.”
“Oh yeah,” Freddie grins. “I remember you wouldn’t let me.”
“Because it was never going to work! You were nowhere near well-known enough at the time. We never would have covered our expenses,” she defends.
Freddie leans back in his chair. “So what you’re saying is I should do it now. I’m plenty well-known now,” he says. “Come on, Florence, let’s go on a road trip. After you win the world championship—we’d make a boatload of money then.”
Florence laughs, but it’s quieter, more wistful. Freddie shouldn’t have mentioned the championship. He knew that, that was stupid. He knew he wasn’t supposed to do that.
Florence takes the last few sips of her drink and looks at him. “Do you want to go for a walk?”
Freddie swallows. “Sure,” he says.
He pays their tab and they head out, wandering the streets of Paris just after dark. There are still plenty of people out, going about their lives. Florence doesn’t seem to have a destination in mind—she’s just walking, and he’s walking with her. The hotel isn’t far from the Seine, and they end up there, walking along the spaces of grass dotted with statues and a few trees.
Florence picks a spot at random and stops at the edge of the pavement, taking her heels off before walking into the grass. After a moment, she lays down.
“How many did you have again?” Freddie laughs.
“Shh. I just want to look at the stars,” she says.
There’s not much to see, in a major city like this, but Freddie isn’t going to argue with her. He sits in the grass next to her, looking into the void above.
“You know… I didn’t think I would be nervous,” she says after a minute or so of silence. She folds her hands together over her stomach. “About the championship, I mean. I’ve been to three of them. I know exactly what to expect. And yet…”
“Yeah,” Freddie agrees. He remembers the nerves—he remembers them almost eating him alive. He never would have survived the first one without Florence. He hopes she has someone like that now, too, but he doesn’t know. They haven’t talked about it. And… “This one is weird, too.”
“Yes,” she agrees quietly.
For a moment, she looks like she’s going to say something else, and Freddie holds his breath and pleads with the universe. If she wants to talk about it—but Freddie doesn’t think he can. Not now. Not about her and Anatoly. Not about how she feels about playing her ex. Not when it’s him, not when Freddie is desperately trying to keep a secret because he doesn’t know what he could possibly say, not…
Not before they’ve talked about it.
The moment passes, and Florence lets it. Freddie feels an acute rush of relief.
“I feel like I owe you an apology,” she says instead.
Suddenly, Freddie is unsure if this is better.
“What?” he asks.
“I… wasn’t always as empathetic as I could have been,” she says.
“What?” Freddie repeats, dumbfounded. “Florence—no. What are you talking about?” He turns to look at her instead of up at the sky. She glances at him only briefly before turning her gaze back toward the stars. “Look. You weren’t perfect, but you did way more for me than anyone else ever had, okay? Besides, neither of us knew what was going on.”
“But now you know,” she says tentatively.
“Now I know,” Freddie agrees. He has a laundry list of diagnoses and coping mechanisms he’s trying to use. And even just the knowing is a relief, although he’s still left to wonder how everything went so badly in his brain. What did he ever do to deserve all this?
Florence sighs, her gaze still pointed away from him. Freddie’s back starts to ache, so he lays down next to her.
“I’m really glad you’re doing better,” she says. “I worried about you. Even after everything. I wasn’t at my best for a while there, either.”
Yeah, she kinda went through a lot. Freddie has only heard bits and pieces. And even before all that, spending that much time with Freddie would be enough to send a lesser person off the deep end. “Have you talked to someone?” Freddie asks. “Like, a therapist?”
“No,” Florence says, a smile in her voice.
“You should,” Freddie says. “Seriously.”
“Maybe you’re right,” she hums. “But I am much better now.” And maybe she is, but—with the world championship coming up, and her father in poor health? She’d be better off finding one now.
“It’s not a destination, I’ve been told,” Freddie says. “God knows I’m going to have to keep working on it until I die.” And the thought of it—of decades more of this—is exhausting, but… he has a lot more to look forward to than he once did. That’s an improvement.
“That’s very wise,” Florence says. “Well, how do you find a good therapist, then?”
“It’ll probably be easy for you,” Freddie says. “I had to find one that could stand me and that I didn’t think was feeding all my problems to the CIA. I think I saw eight people before I found Diane.”
“Sounds like a lot of work,” Florence comments. She yawns—Freddie should probably get her back to her hotel soon. She’s had a long and eventful day. He sits up again, moving to sit cross-legged.
“Yeah, well, it was either that or kill myself,” Freddie says. He really does mean for it to be a joke, or at least sound like one, but Florence doesn’t take it that way. As soon as he sees the look she gives him, he regrets saying it.
“Freddie,” she says, and she sounds a little choked up, which is just great. But she sits up and hugs him, hooking her arms around him and squeezing him tight, and Freddie melts into it kind of embarrassingly quickly. He missed her.
A few minutes later, a police officer starts to wander over, so they get to their feet and start to head back to the hotel.
“You really don’t have a ticket yet?” Florence asks after a while.
“Nope.”
She thinks for a moment. “I’m taking the scenic route home. Trains and a ferry,” she says. “Would you want to come with me and visit for a few days? See my new flat? I have a pull-out couch, but there are good hotels in the area, too. We could play some.”
Freddie takes a steadying breath. “The couch is fine,” he chuckles. “But I’m gonna let you ask me again once you’re sober.”
“I only had two drinks,” she huffs.
“Still,” Freddie insists. “I’m trying to give you space.” It’s something he and Diane had talked about at length, something he's tried to be very careful about, over the past two years. He really doesn’t want to fuck this up again.
Florence laughs at him. “You really have changed.”
Freddie laughs helplessly along with her. She’s right—this is a far cry from their first meeting. He wouldn’t even recognize himself, if the Freddie from twelve years ago met the Freddie of today.
That’s probably a good thing.
He walks her back to her room, and before she goes inside, she hugs him again. It’s so much easier than using words, but still, he thinks, I love you. And it hurts. Because she’d always said it so easily, and the last time he did… well.
She’s here, though. Through some miracle, Florence doesn’t hate him. All he has to do is not blow it again. And, so far, he seems to be doing an okay job.
Freddie goes back to his own hotel room and packs. Just in case.