Work Text:
It's a lot like a game of chess. You make your move, I make mine, and the best player wins. Which, in our case, means that I win.
My move.
I start gently. I don't want to scare you away. First, it's expanding of our usual physical contact: pat on the back, a hug after a match, carefully measured touch on the thigh during just as measured work-induced laughing fit. I want you to get used to me on different levels than usual. I feel like I'm setting up traps on you, and in a way, I am. You're going to fall for me, sooner or later. I can wait.
Your move.
You don't seem to be startled by my touches. You start responding, and I savor every time you initiate it, and I consider your every touch my small victory, my little check. One day you will come to me asking for more, and then and only then, I will announce myself as the winner. For now, you follow my lead, which is how it's supposed to be. I like it.
My move.
Gradually I take more and more of your time, although it's barely possible with the nature of our work. I invite you to dinner under a reason of business matters and feed you exquisite food. It's no different from a date, but I don't want to label a part of our game with such a simple term. I pour champagne into your glass, and you laugh; you seem relaxed and joke around, easily leading a conversation. I keep playing the role of a colleague and a friend. This will change soon, but I will let you have this evening unmarred and straightforward.
Your move.
You're far from innocent; it's obvious. It's evident that after we leave the court, you look at me. I see a hunger in your eyes when in a dressing room that we traditionally share (and in the case of this particular tradition, I'm more than happy to stay true to it). You take your time to change, showing off your body to me. It's subtle; if I wasn't aware of our game, I'd never notice it. Good move.
My move.
It's good that I'm patient and won't hurry with my next move. It's all about good timing, after all. So whenever you're sad, tired, bored, or all of it simultaneously, I'm here for you. I'll become your only support, your only anchor, your one and only go-to person. I'll eliminate every competitor from your life; I'll replace them all, and you won't need anyone else when you have me. And you have me already, don't you see?
Your move.
You ask for more time apart, and at first, I'm annoyed and angry at this request, but then I understand what you're doing and your intentions. You're playing hard to get, don't you - teasing me, testing me. I won't let you down. You can have your time alone. I will miss you, too.
My move.
When you're back from your little vacation, I'm waiting for you. I surround you with care and protection - besides, I made sure there's no one to care about you except me. I grow and groom your affection for me, and soon I will have my harvest.
Your move.
You seem to realize that I'm the only person in the world who cares about you. That's not necessarily true, but it's not as important as the fact that it's me who you go to on your own accord in search of advice, support, and rest. You become needy, seeking my attention much more often than before. I give it all to you. You deserve it.
My move.
I planned to have another check in our game by now, and I'm true to my word. Next time you're in my apartment, which has become a regular thing and of which I'm genuinely proud, you sit on the floor, going through my LP collection - beautiful, irresistible, pure. I stand in a doorway and look at you, I don't know for how long, but you are a very pleasing sight, you know. After a while, you notice my presence and look up at me with your big, clear eyes. I feel pride and possessiveness bloom in my chest. At this moment, it becomes evident that you will be mine, no matter how long it takes. You will yield to me.
I sit on the floor next to you and look at the records you chose to listen to. You radiate a feeling of safety and comfort, sitting right next to me, so pliant and casual around me. After a moment of consideration, I allow myself a risky step and lean into you, placing my palm on your cheek. I press my lips against yours in one fluid motion, and I savor every second of this moment and file it away to dwell on after - no matter what the outcome will be. I'm not surprised when you give in and kiss me back. Check.
Your move.
You're not ashamed nor stressed after our little episode; I'm truly intrigued. It seems like I've been right all along: you are playing our game, fully aware of it. I think I will win much faster than I thought. You tend to touch and interact with me a lot more than before. This ever-growing clinginess, however, decides my next move for me. This is good, but more is needed. I want your submission, your clear and articulated manifest of surrender, and I have a feeling that it won't be long.
Once, when we're saying goodbyes at my doorstep, you give me a quick, careful kiss and look at me expectantly, waiting for my reaction, scanning my face for a sign of emotion. You're excited and eager to know my feelings about it, but there is a better time for my move. I whisper "Goodnight" and close the door.
My move.
I perform a tactical retreat, turning away from you only to lure you closer. You are almost ready to fall into my arms immediately, but I want you to surrender without my help. I know you're fully capable of this, and I'll give you some more time. I ignore your calls, avoid you during and especially after training, and minimize our conversations to restrained "G'morning" and "See you tomorrow." I act disturbed and disconcerted at your romantic outburst, leading you faster and faster into my trap.
Your move.
You're more confused and upset than you've ever been during our game. You don't understand what's going on; why do I act so distant and cold, it drives you desperate and sad. Now that I avoid you, you're entirely alone, and I know for a fact how scared you are of loneliness. There's no other escape for you but to chase me and beg me for attention - in other words, there's no choice for you but to lose. Oh, I do enjoy our game.
About a week passes until you lose all your dignity. I see you in a press area, and I notice that your eyes are red and slightly swollen. Of course, I ignore it. You keep staring at me during the meeting, but I avoid eye contact. You no longer radiate comfort but worry and uncertainty instead. I see it clearly: you no longer need my guidance; you're ready to surrender.
My move.
There's nothing left for me to do. I wait, and I wait, and I wait.
I'm at home that evening, relaxing after a hard day with a glass of vodka and a good record, soaking in the memory of your miserable stare, recollecting the details and feelings of our two kisses, when I hear a knock on the door. My heart jumps in my chest. This might be it. It might be you, confirming your fall, waving your white flag. Oh, I hope it's you. I waited for so long. Please, please, let it be you. A thousand hopeful thoughts race through my mind as I reach the door. I take a deep breath and open it. Oh yes. I thank every deity there is (or isn't) and look at you blankly. The game should be ended properly, no matter how much I want it to end already.
Your move.
Your breath is unsteady and ragged, and there are tears in your eyes. I've never seen you so beautiful, so helpless. You breathe in, and it sounds more like a wheeze. I'm still silent and passive, waiting for you to end the game. You whisper something too quiet and uneven to understand. "What?" I ask, scanning your face for a possible clue to your words, waiting for a further explanation, looking at you half-expectantly. You sob twice, pull a gun out of your pocket, and press it right between my eyes.
Blood boils in my veins with a horrifying screeching sound, and through this screeching, I hear you whisper:
"Checkmate."