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The sun had set some time ago, its dying light casting warmth across the hotel room. He had been at this since dinner—takeout from the fancy Italian place down the street—as the now cold and half-emptied cartons around him could testify. The Russian had ordered for him, something with cured meat and a pesto sauce. He had sworn that he had tried it before back in actual Italy and thought that Freddie would love it. Although the food had been okay, Freddie doubted that it held up to the authentic stuff.
Anatoly had sat on the bed behind him for a while, ripping little pieces off a ciabatta roll, dipping them in oil, then licking the remnants from his fingers (the goddamn temptress), but he had disappeared sometime between the seventh and eighth draft. Freddie missed the stolidity of his stare. It made this whole business of quitting so much more tolerable. They had both made enough in winnings to live more than comfortably and Anatoly was still competing and he really didn’t like writing for Global anymore, but something still felt so wrong. It felt like amputating an arm. He’d survive, sure, but at what cost?
While he was thinking, soft footsteps approached the desk from behind. He jumped when the Russian placed his hand on his shoulder.
“It is half past.”
“What?”
“Midnight.”
“Oh.”
“Page has been blank since, mmm, ten-ish? When you threw out old one.”
“Oh.”
With that, they returned to silence. The Russian stood behind him for a while, hand weighing heavy as he watched him watch the empty paper. Maybe if he thought hard enough he could will words onto it? So far that plan wasn’t working. Quitting chess had been rough, but whether he wanted to admit it or not, his passion for the circuit had been dead long before he threw the match, and recovering his image after Merano would’ve been near impossible anyways. This, though, there was something more final about this. Global had been his last stand, his Alamo, his final connection to the game. To give it up easily would just be wrong.
“Are you done with the dinner?” The Russian’s hand was wondering now, worrying over the side of his neck, sliding down to his collarbone, then returning to the juncture at his shoulder. He hadn’t realized how tense he was.
“That feels nice.” At that, he moved his other hand up to mirror the motions on his left side. His thick palms warmed his skin and his strong digits dug through the tension in his muscles. He worked upward again, thumbs rubbing little circles into the hitch of his jawbone with a bruising pressure.
“Good. But not an answer.” Everything hurt. Mind and body aching, he was a mess, but Anatoly was helping.
“Yeah. I’m done. It was good, thanks.”
Anatoly stopped for a moment, kneeling down over him to reach the takeout carton. He spun a nest of fettuccine onto Freddie’s fork, dipping it into the pesto pooling at the bottom, then finished the bite by spearing a halved tomato. He brought it to his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
“Mmm,” he swallowed, “Is not as nice as I remembered.” Freddie had figured as much.
“Maybe that’s because we’re not in Italy. Dipshit.”
“Shush. I am being nice with you.” He moved the container closer and continued to pick at the pasta as he returned to working the tightness from Freddie’s neck with one hand. Freddie followed the Russian’s long, bony fingers as they twirled about his fork. The grace with which he set about the meal was impressive. Freddie could barely handle eating with two hands.
Anatoly, seeming to have noticed Freddie’s gaze, paused. He spiraled more of the cooled fettuccine onto the fork and held it up to him suggestively. “Would you like a bite?”
Now this was embarrassing. He had allowed this man to talk him out of his job, order him food, and massage his goddamn neck, but this was a step too far. Freddie was a grown man. He was not going to let another man feed him. What little remained of his dignity would not stand for this. He simply would not stoop so low.
He parted his lips.
“Sure.”
It still wasn’t great, but definitely better cold. The… prosciutto (maybe?) was sharp and fatty on his tongue, cutting through the cool salt of the pesto. He could see why the Russian would like this. He swallowed hard as Anatoly slid the fork from his lips the laid it back in the container.
“Is still good? No?”
Freddie’s head was spinning. His ego was rioting. How dare this incredibly attractive man just waltz into his life, take everything from him, and then somehow find a way to give it all back and then some. He opened his mouth to say something—something fiery and clever—but nothing came.
Anatoly smiled, straightening to his full height. “Eloquent.” He paused, looking Freddie up and down. “Hm, I cannot get to your back with the chair like this.”
Freddie squinted at him for a long moment. Then, when he was sure his lips were working again, “I’m not getting up.”
“No matter.” The Russian stepped towards him and Freddie’s stomach dropped. Before he had time to counter, the Russian had a hand circling behind his back and an arm wrapped securely under his knees. Then he was honest-to-god carrying him. Bridal style. Like a groom would his bride. Freddie stared at him incredulously.
“What? ’s not like you are heavy.”
His face went hot and he opened his mouth to defend himself.
“I’ll have you know—“
“Ah. Shush. I could drop you if I wanted to.” Freddie shut up and let himself be carried to the bed.
The linen sheets were cool against his palms, a welcome reprieve from the otherwise stuffy warmth of the hotel room. Freddie went to undo the top two buttons of his shirt.
Anatoly smirked, “Wow. Sexy.” He had changed already, switching his starched button-down and sharp blazer for a light henley sweater. It looked nice on him.
“Shut it.” Freddie paused his movements. He was pretty sure the Russian was just messing with him.
“No, please. Keep going,” Anatoly laughed. Now Freddie was definitely sure that he was being screwed with. That was okay though. He could be the bigger man here.
“Keep your mouth running like that and maybe I will.” The bigger man thing had been a lie. Hell if he’d be the first to call chicken.
“Here. It is hot, no? Let me help.” The Russian knelt in front of him, broad knees denting the plush carpet. He locked eyes with Freddie, reaching up under his hands to undo the third button himself. Then the fourth. Then lower to the fifth (and thank god Freddie had already untucked the shirt). When the front had been completely undone, he reached up again to slip the billowing fabric off of Freddie’s shoulders and pull it down, revealing the delicate freckles that spotted his arms.
Anatoly could feel the American’s gaze on him, staring down at the dark circles lining his drooping eyes and the gray hairs starting to take root at his temples. He didn’t want to be the one to look away first, but the sudden shock of humility forced his head down. He took the button-down from the bed and folded it, trying to ignore how the soft cotton of his remaining t-shirt clung to the American’s figure. Anatoly had never been particularly self-conscious about his image. He knew was attractive, but the man in front of him was ethereal.
“Lie down on your stomach.” The Russian stood, leaving the cleanly folded shirt at the foot of the bed. Freddie did as he was told and when Anatoly followed, straddling his waist, he just about died.
“This is it,” he deadpanned, voice muffled in the pillows, “You’ve killed me. My dignity will never recover.”
“Eh, there are worse ways to go.” Anatoly dug the heels of his palms in slow, deep, and unyielding circles around his shoulder blades and down his spinal column. Freddie whimpered, clutching a pillow to his chest. His hands pressed out waves of tension, fanning down his sides then up his neck. When he reached the base of his skull, he switched to an excruciating minute of pure pressure with his thumbs. Freddie’s mind went blank. White-hot noise radiated from the Russian’s hands, spreading through his veins and down to his fingertips. Freddie closed his eyes, laying limp on the pillows, and just let himself take it.
“My god, Tolya!” Freddie groaned.
“What?” The Russian froze, voice hard and crass against the soft ambience.
God, for once in his life he had thought he had read the room correctly. Apparently, he was wrong.
“C’mon comrade, don’t tell me that now is the time you draw the line at blasphemy.” There. He threw the Russian a bone. Back to insults. They could do insults. They were used to insults.
“No, what did you call me?” The Russian’s tone remained enviably even.
“Oh. Nothing. Just… I overheard Florence once… it’s nothing.” Anatoly hadn’t caught on and now Freddie was going to cry.
“No. No, no. Shush.” Anatoly moved a hand up to tuck a stray lock of the man’s hair behind his ear. “I do not mind.”
“Oh.”
Anatoly resumed his movement and Freddie melted right back into the mattress.
Sometime later, when the American was fully asleep, Anatoly would get up and throw away the remaining takeout. Then, he would turn the lights off and join him in bed, throwing the sheet haphazardly over them in a half-conscious attempt at chivalry.
The next morning, Freddie would pen the letter of resignation with renewed vigor then accompany Anatoly to the 1982 World Chess Championship as his second.
A surprise to no one, he won.