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Before the first instrumental break, Florence and Anatoly enter from stage left in light discussion. They reach back-center by Freddie’s last note. Freddie (mid-manic episode, perhaps with a wine glass in hand) falls back in a fit of emotion upon finishing the verse. The brunt of his weight lands on Anatoly, who tries to keep them both from falling over, but his efforts really just result in more of a stumbling mess.
The moment Freddie rights himself, his spine sticks ramrod straight and he abruptly backs away. Shaking with genuine fear and paranoia, “Goddamn red bastards! You’ve got a wire or something? A 45 tucked in your belt loops? They’re finally doing me in huh?”
Freddie’s hysterics are honestly sympathetic, if not somewhat pitiful, but Anatoly is unsure of how to handle this level of delusion. He really doesn't want this scene to get to the tabloids, so he looks to Florence for guidance. Her face is distant and unreadable.
“Trumper," he tries, "You’re not a competitor. Why would they care?” Anatoly is clueless as to who “they” is, but he is doing his best to de-escalate the situation before Freddie breaks something (or someone).
“Damn it! That doesn’t matter! It’s not even about the game anymore. Don’t you understand? It’s never been about the game!” Freddie grips Anatoly by the shoulders, shaking the taller man with violent urgency. His voice is cracking and his eyeliner is starting to run as Anatoly gently wrestles him away.
Florence’s stoicism wanes at the sight and she places a tentative hand on Freddie’s shoulder. Imploringly, in that lilting voice only she could conjure at a time like this, “Freddie?”
She’s seen him like this before: when he drinks too much or forgets to take his meds. Really, she’s seen him like this far too often.
“Oh, fuck you,” Freddie pushes his unfaithful second away. Not really his second anymore.
Sharply, Florence regains her composure. She dusts her lapels in cold, brisk movements while expressly refusing to meet Freddie’s manic eyes. With a deep breath, she rummages through the left pocket of her sports coat, quickly retrieving a small bag of pills* She tosses them at Freddie, looks pointedly to Anatoly, then turns heel to exit. She expects him to follow, but he doesn’t. Florence looks back a final time, trying to find a reason as to why her lover has seemingly chosen a madman over her. Freddie is fully breaking down now. Anatoly, in a voice barely above a whisper, pleads "Florence?” But it is clear that no reason he can provide will be enough to satisfy her. With a resigned nod, she exits stage right.
Something about seeing Freddie, his one true equal, suffer such mental anguish has struck a chord. Reaching out a bony hand, Anatoly puts on his best attempt at consolence. It’s stilted and insincere. “How is the work at Global?” A beat of dead silence.
The music rises as Freddie turns. The first instrumental break is over and now, when he resumes with “Pity the child, but not forever,” it is directly pointed at Anatoly.
Despite barriers of culture and country, Freddie is the only person on earth who will ever be able to truly understand Anatoly Sergievsky. Unlike Florence, Molokov, or even Viigand, chess is all they have. The game is all they can cling to, but they cannot bring themselves to be ashamed of this.
At the start of the second instrumental break, Freddie falls to the ground in tears. Anatoly disappears for a brief moment, then joins him on the floor with a bottle of Smirnoff and shot glasses. They drink together. Anatoly pours Freddie a second glass and, with it, Freddie downs a pill. The lights fade to black.