Chapter Text
Their university had chess tables. Freddie sometimes played.
He wasn’t playing today. He was doing his statistics homework, his tenth circle of hell (as Florence would probably say).
“Take this die.” Svetlana, seated across from him, held it out. “Six sides, different numbers. If I throw it, I could roll a one, two, three, four, five, or six.”
“Yeah.” Simple stuff. It just didn’t make sense in class. It only made sense when Svetlana explained it afterwards.
“What is the probability I’ll roll a one?” she asked, examining the die. It was her favorite color — yellow!
Freddie winced. He probably sounded stupid.
“One over six…?” He definitely sounded stupid. “Like, one-sixth?"
“You got it!” Svetlana never lost her patience; she'd explain things until they made sense. Freddie had encountered very few people like her — or maybe none at all. “There’s a one-sixth chance I’ll roll a one. The same is true for rolling a two, a three, and so on.”
“Okay.” Freddie stared at the die, trying to recall the lecture. He hated feeling stupid. He hated struggling. Stats made him struggle. Stupidly. “And if we add those probabilities up, we get 1. If we add one-sixth, uh, six times.”
It was like the part of his brain that had ideas and the part that articulated those ideas weren't connected. Svetlana, however, had a gift for explanation.
“Yes! Add the probabilities together and you’ll get 1. That’s it!”
Okay. He got it now.
Svetlana glanced at the next question in the homework assignment and nodded to herself.
“For this last part, all you need to know is that a probability of 1 is a certainty.” She chose her words carefully. “When you roll a die, you’ll roll a one, two, three, four, five, or six. You will roll one of those numbers, so the probability of rolling any one of those numbers — doesn't matter which — is 1. Think of a probability of 1 as 100%. If the probability of something is 100%, it will happen. Does that make sense?”
“I get it.” He was following along with surprising ease. “And 0 is…”
“0 is an impossibility.” Svetlana savored the word. Impossibility, to her, was a promise. “For example, you have zero chance of rolling a smiley face. There is no smiley face on this die, so you can’t roll a smiley face. You have to roll a one, two, three, four, five, or six.”
When she said it, it was common sense. The math department should have hired Svetlana to write all their textbooks.
To teach all the classes, too.
“Got it.” He was grateful. He was embarrassed. He was calm. He was warm. “Let me buy you ice cream sometime, okay? You’re a real help. And I’ll bring my friend. I think you’d like her. She’s smart like you.”
Svetlana instantly lit up.
“I’d love to get ice cream and meet your friend!” It was the first semester of her graduate program. She didn’t mention Anatoly; she wanted to make her own friends. She wanted a life that existed outside of him!
“Great.” Freddie shoved his homework into his backpack. “Give me your number.”
She gave it, then watched him leave. Light moved differently. Thermodynamics didn’t behave in his proximity. When he settled into a steady pace, he swung his arms back and forth. Sparks flew from his fingertips.
She looked away. It was a golden afternoon. Across the lawn, Anatoly sat under a tree’s shade, studying a game of chess he’d set up.
He never used the chess tables. He didn’t like them. Truth be told, he didn’t like a great many things.
Svetlana turned back, ignoring a sudden lump in her throat. Her gaze caught — oh! The die!
She scooped it up and tossed it into the sunlight.
It landed at the center of the table, perfectly placed between four chess squares. She leaned in.
She rolled a smiley face. :)
I remember when I met you! I was the TA for your undergrad statistics course. It was the first year of my grad program.
(BTW — Can you BELIEVE I got into a grad program in the USA? Me? With a scholarship? IN THE USA? I still can’t!)
You were a senior undergrad. You’d been avoiding the statistics requirement, but it was time to graduate. I know how hard it can be to ask for help, so I was shocked when you came to me.
I remember sitting with you at the chess tables. Good to see our extravagant student fees being put to good use! You brought your pieces. I wasn’t a chess player, but you were. You were the US champion for a reason. Even though I was tutoring you, I felt worthless next to you. You were always so nice to me, and you even gave me your autograph one day. You were so different from the image everyone conceived of you. I felt special! I felt like I was seeing the real Freddie Trumper. I felt like you were letting me in on a secret.
I still have your autograph BTW! I framed it. I think you'll be World Champion one day!
:)
A picture is not worth a thousand words. A picture is a memory. It is a portal to the past. It paints emotions lost to time.
A picture is indescribable.
Florence was the photographer. She’d carry her purple Polaroid everywhere, snapping shots of everything and everyone. Freddie regretted giving her the stupid camera. He didn’t like being in pictures, despite the shit the media said.
The pictures she took are his lifeline now. Everything hurts as he sifts through old photographs.
Picture #1: The four of them at the university's park. A passerby snapped the shot for them after Svetlana asked. Anatoly and Florence are at the center, as per usual. He smiles awkwardly and Florence touches his cheek and looks at him in adoration. Freddie is to their left, looking properly annoyed, and Svetlana is to their right, making a peace sign and trying to smile.
He saves that one.
Picture #2: A selfie of himself and Florence. It’s finals week. He’s swamped in textbooks and notes, but Florence is beaming at the camera. Should have studied more throughout the semester, wouldn’t have resorted to cramming, she’d said. The lenses of his glasses are covered in ashes. The shadows under his eyes make him look like a raccoon.
He saves that one.
Picture #3: A picture of Svetlana and Anatoly at a formal. They hadn’t been each other’s dates, but Florence insisted on taking pictures of everything. Anatoly isn’t smiling. Svetlana never stops smiling, but her body language is tense.
Freddie crumples that picture in his fist.
He sets it aflame.
Picture #4: A candid of Freddie on the plane ride back from a tournament. He realized Florence took that picture only after the flash went off. Winning hadn’t felt as great as he’d anticipated. He hadn't spoken a word to her for the rest of the night..
He decides to burn it, wishing he could burn with it.
Picture #5: Anatoly. Another candid. He’s hunched over his board and the unwavering strength of his concentration is evident. He is dressed far too formally, as he always is, and his board is painfully beautiful, just as he is. It’s a unique set, featuring pieces meticulously constructed of snow and ice. There is no black and white — his pieces are transparent and white. Opacity and transparency are authentic opposites, Anatoly thinks.
Here, Freddie hesitates the most. He swears he feels the cold emanating from the picture itself.
Anatoly still has that concentration sharper than jagged ice. It’s dangerous. It’s obsession.
Freddie can’t burn it.
He puts the remaining pictures back into his drawer. They'll collect dust.
Their hearts aren’t in sync.
Every moment spent with Anatoly is ecstasy tarnished with guilt. It creeps like poison. Freddie is choking, and he can’t scream. Beside him, Anatoly stares at the ceiling. His breathing is slow and even.
“Talk to Florence lately?” Freddie tries to get ahold of his own breathing.
Anatoly doesn’t bat an eye.
“You know I have not,” he coolly says. “You ask every time. My answer is never anything different.”
Correct.
Freddie will keep asking.
“Could’ve just said no and shut the fuck up.”
“Whenever I say no, you ask follow-ups.”
There is irritation in Anatoly’s voice. It's always the same between the two of them. They fuck, the past comes knocking, they fight.
Repeat.
“She hates us.”
“You’re the one she hates.” Anatoly delivers objective truths with simplicity and composure. He is as collected as the ice sculptures he used to build Svetlana. “I could phone her right now. She’d run back into my arms.”
“She wouldn’t.” Freddie turns away.
The two of them run relatively average human temperatures, but Freddie always feels frozen when they’re together. He clenches his teeth to keep them from chattering.
Anatoly turns his head towards him and Freddie unwillingly finds himself turning back. Anatoly’s eyes are caught in a sliver of light peeking in through the blinds. He’s as beautiful now as he was then. Freddie understands why Florence and Svetlana were entranced. Anyone would be. It’s a fucking heartbreak that beauty does not reflect what’s inside.
“Freddie." The Russian accent has faded, but Freddie can still hear it. “I never meant to hurt her.”
“But you did.” He's suffocating again. Being with Anatoly is heaven and hell. He’s freezing, burning. He misses the past. He’s terrified of the future. “Svetlana was your first. Florence came after. I’m your next regret.”
“It’s only a regret if it’s romantic,” Anatoly murmurs, and he moves to kiss Freddie again. Freddie, however, roughly pushes him aside.
His hand reaches the nightstand and he puts his glasses back on.
Anatoly just sighs. To him, it’s just another game.
Freddie once swore he’d never let anything catch fire again, but he neglected to include his heart in his qualification of anything. Maybe it’s because he didn’t think he had a heart back then. He’s paying the price now. His throat burns, and he hastily pulls his clothes on, trying to keep the rage at bay.
“I don’t mean to hurt you, Freddie.” Anatoly sits up. The light isn’t in his eyes anymore. “I don’t mean to hurt anyone.”
“But you do,” Freddie says, and his voice breaks. He hates himself for letting it break. He hates his heart for breaking.
“But I do,” Anatoly agrees, and Freddie can’t bear to look at him. He leaves.
His fingertips singe Anatoly’s doorknob.
I remember when I met you. You swept me off my feet. You’d build sculptures of ice and snow and said they could never compare to me. You used to say so many things, and I believed you.
You met Florence. I thought she was special. Someone like me — of course you could break my heart. But I never thought you would take a knife to Florence’s, especially since you knew how much she meant to me.
Means to me.
I regret loving you. I try not to regret things, because it’ll lead me down a make me do things I send me spiraling because because because the past is the past and I can change it and I can’t change it.
The past is prologue, someone once said. Florence knows so many quotes. She’s full of them.
I regret loving you.
:)