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“That’s the king,” Grian begins, “he’s the big one, you’ve gotta make sure he stays safe.”
“I know that,” says Scar, sounding like he’s tired of this already. “I’m going.”
“So go!”
“Give me a second!” Maybe not so much tired as rushed; Scar has made it no secret that he barely knows what to do with these things. He hovers over the pieces for a while, eyes flicking back and forth.
“It doesn’t matter too much which pawn you start with,” Grian offers. (He’s not actually all that good at chess. Sure, he can hold his own, but he’s not winning any tournaments. That’s never mattered to Scar, who just likes the fact that it’s something they can do together without him having to walk.)
“Don’t watch me. I can’t do it if you’re watching me.”
He looks away performatively. Scar lets out a little huff, frustrated. “Going alright?”
“I don’t get it,” he finally acquiesces, “maybe you can show me where I went wrong.”
Grian looks back. “You didn’t move anything.”
Scar just blinks at him. A lot. And pouts.
“Okay, how about we -” he clears his throat “- start over, and I’ll help you pick your -”
“Great!” Scar leans over, lifting off his seat and grabbing Grian by the leg of his chair and then he’s being dragged across the carpet to the other side of the table.
Which he protests, loudly. “Scar! What are you doing?”
“You’re gonna help me,” he replies, grinning as though it’s the most obvious solution in the world. Maybe it is, and Grian’s already too wrapped up in chess-brain to see it. Maybe Scar’s just trying to get him to move closer. Grian wouldn’t put it past him.
“Okay.”
“I’ll go first.”
“You are on white,” Grian points out, which flies in one of Scar’s ears and directly out the other by the look he gets in return. “Move a pawn, then.”
“Which one?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Pick one.”
“Okay -” pawn to E4 it is then, couldn’t be easier “- that one.”
“And where does it go?”
“There.”
“Here?” He tries to put it on E3.
“No, you get - on your first turn you can - hold on, I wasn’t even pointing at that square -”
“Oh, hey, the little horsie’s over here, I love this guy!”
“Not the knight -”
“Alright, alright,” Scar laughs, leaning into Grian, “I’ll behave.”
“Jesus,” Grian shakes his head, but he can’t help but smile as well. “Good first move.”
“Not too bad, if I say so myself - thank you kindly. Your turn?”
“That is how a two-man game works,” he rolls his eyes, and goes to pick one of his own pawns to move from the far side of the board. He feels the cool current of the air conditioner hit his midriff when he’s reached far enough, and arrives with sudden clarity at the suspicion that Scar has orchestrated this scenario entirely on purpose. Grian looks back over his shoulder, and sure enough, there’s Scar, enjoying the view all too much. He sighs.
“What?” says Scar, with a smile like lightning. “Move a pawn, then.”
“You’re joking.”
“Move a pawn!” He is. Worse than that, he’s mocking Grian. “Don’t you wanna play the game?”
And… Well, he did.
There’s something hungry pooling in Scar’s eyes, though, that suggests a far more interesting alternative.
“You’re lucky you’re so pretty,” murmurs Grian, and it’s with a not-so-subtle shift in angle that he redirects his journey back down to land not back on his chair but on Scar’s lap instead.
“Oh!” Scar looks surprised, sure, but also like he welcomes this development entirely. “So what’s this opening called?”
“Hmm?”
“They’re called openings, right? In chess?”
Oh. Chess. “Er - this is,” and he’s not in the mindset for bullshitting right now, but he reaches for a half-sensible sounding answer anyway, “that’s the Catalonian Defense. They do it all the time in -” Scar takes his hand, and it’s a herculean effort to keep his train of thought “- in Catalonia.”
“Aw. I was hoping you still had your pawn, I was gonna play with him.”
“That’s why you did that?”
“I’m a simple man, Grian. The mind wanders. I gotta keep it distracted.”
“You can’t use a piece that’s in play as a fidget.”
“Sure I can! You’re smart, you can keep track of him,” he says, and starts batting his eyes again. Grian stands up again to move to D5 before Scar can catch him in the act, and by the time warm hands have snaked around his waist to pull him back into position on Scar’s legs, he’s already let go of the pawn. “Dang it.”
“Sorry.”
“Well, how am I supposed to keep my mind from wandering now?”
“I don’t know,” he insists over the obvious implications. “Take another turn.”
“What should I do next? How does that - your Catalog Defense, how’s it go?”
He surveys the board, but as much as chess-brain can take over when it sets in, as soon as it’s going it’s gone. “Er… you could get your bishop out.”
“Oh,” and Scar fans himself like Grian’s flashed an ankle in the town square, “scandalous. It’s only two pm.”
“Shut up,” he protests, but Scar’s other hand is still on his hips, and it’s half-hearted. “They’re the ones that only go diagonally.”
“I knew that too.”
“So try it!”
Instead of leaning around Grian, Scar just leans in, and with his head perched on Grian’s shoulder and his entire upper body pressed into Grian’s back it’s hard to remember what he’s even saying. “This one?”
“Um… no, the other diagonal.”
“Oh, alright.” The pressure shifts slightly with the drift of Scar’s free hand. “This guy?”
“Yep.”
“And where do I put him?”
“I - just… do what your heart wants.”
“But I can’t think in chess like you do, G! My brain just doesn’t gel with all these pieces, and these moves, and these defenses…”
“This game’s boring, anyway,” he submits, hoping that his one-man jury will declare a verdict of let’s just give it up and you can make out with me for the rest of the afternoon.
He should have expected more, though. Scar’s craftier than that. “Can I just win?”
“Can…” Oh, what the hell. “Yes. Sure, Scar.”
Scar whoops, and leans in again, knocking his pieces into Grian’s one after another until they all topple over and scatter off the sides of the table. “Scar wins!”
“Good job, Scar,” he chuckles.
“Scar wins! Checkmate!”
“You,” and Grian stretches, rolling his back, into a more side-on pose, where he can wrap his arm around Scar’s neck and actually see his face for the first time in a couple of minutes, “are unbelievable.”
“It’s checkmate, right? That’s the one thing I was, like, a hundred on.”
“Yes, it’s checkmate when you win.”
“Woo! And what do I get for winning, chess master?”
“I don’t know.” He moves his face in closer, almost bumping his nose against Scar’s. “What would you like as your reward?”
“Uh - can you go back on your own chair?”
Grian blinks. “Really?”
“I’m sorry. It’s adorable, and you’re amazing-beautiful-sexy-awesome-hot, but… my legs are going numb.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry -!”
“It’s okay! I was gonna just deal, I promise, but it’s getting a little - you’re just,” and here he restrains a giggle, “you’re too thick.”
“I’m - Scar,” he can’t help but whine, “why does it always come back to my arse?”
“I gotta appreciate the booty when I get the chance,” Scar defends. “It’s a good butt.”
“I think you have an obsession.” He stands, though, and is almost unfazed (but not quite) by the ensuing tapping he receives, right on schedule.
“What, you want me to spend my time looking at other people’s butts?”
“In no way did I imply that.” Grian turns around again. Scar’s still eyeing him, so he crouches and gives his boyfriend a peck on the cheek - feather-light, gentle, but full to bursting with the promise of it only being the beginning. “Congratulations on your win.”
“You are too kind, Mr Chess Man.”
And then, because he can’t help it, another kiss. And another, and another - it feels like reaching for another piece of popcorn over and over again, the way he’s leaning back and then in again when the temptation to lavish Scar in his affections grows too strong. Scar, to his credit, sits back patiently and allows Grian to do the lavishing, which Grian imagines must be something like torture if Scar is feeling anywhere near as fired up as he is. Grian has always been a fan of the way that Scar’s face is made up; maybe it’s weird, but he likes the fact that Scar’s, well, scar tissue gives him an interesting texture, gives Grian’s thumbs something to trace as he finally pulls his boyfriend’s face in for easy access and starts making out with him in earnest; likes the way that he can trace a trail all the way up Scar’s neck in kisses sometimes and always be able to map his path by the lines he can feel on his lips, and then how beautifully soft Scar’s lips are in comparison to that, a soft place to land and lose himself at the end of the road. He pulls himself out of the whirlpool, though, before he can start to get a crick in his back from leaning over like this, and rubs a circle into Scar’s jaw with his thumb, relishing in the dilation of his pupils and the flush of his cheeks.
“Aww, is that it?”
“No,” he promises, realising with electrically-charged excitement how out of breath he sounds (and how much worse that’s going to get over the course of the next hour, if all goes well), “that’s just me saving myself from extra stretches. I figured we could move somewhere more comfortable?”
Scar lights up. “Sounds like a fantastic idea to me.”
(Later, when they come back to clean up the chess board, they find Jellie camped out underneath the table with her little hoard of pieces, cheerfully gnawing on one of the rooks. Which Grian would like to say is Scar’s fault, for letting her get her destructive little paws on it in the first place - but, he supposes, really he’s just as much to blame.)
(Worth it, though.)