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There’s an indescribable feeling of regret that hangs heavy in the air, trying to push their shoulders down as if the defeat that was radiating from every inch of their bodies wasn’t enough of a torture. If he was alone and not on this stage for the world to see, the heel to the hero sitting across from him, Ian is sure he would’ve done something that he would probably regret later with whatever remained of his heart. Anything to numb the guilt that urges him to raise his hand in resignation, because that’s the ending that this match, the most dramatic of plays that unfolded tonight, deserves.
It was him after all that made a mess of the opening, and was worse, and worse, and worse. Maybe later he’ll scream at himself, throw something and break it, break himself, for playing too quickly, too relaxed considering what was at stake. But at that moment, all Ian could do was sit, slumped back in his chair almost far enough to topple himself over as Fabi took his chances at another World Championship match in his hands and slowly, meticulously, started tearing them apart as if they were nothing more than scraps of paper. Perhaps his heart too in the process, but that could be fixed later as well once Ian felt he deserved it. If he deserved it. Fabi played well and deserved to win, deserved his chance. Much less could be said for his opponent. However that didn’t matter right now, all that was left to do was to shake Fabi’s hand and sign the scoresheet that would declare his victory before…
He's not entirely sure when the ending started being less obvious, murkier in nature. Such was the gruelling nature of the last two weeks that mistakes eventually stop looking like mistakes, masked as an inaccuracy or simply not the top engine move. It’s almost timely that Ian has to wipe at his eyes at the thought, to stop the pieces blurring in his vision, but if he knew Fabi, he would be able to convert his advantage and show him some mercy. Even if he was in some time trouble, Fabi would still be able to raise the gun to his head, and shoot.
In hindsight, what transpired might as well have been the same, if not worse than that.
Fabi started losing control, both of the position and himself, Ian couldn’t help but notice with every fleeting glance he dared to take at the other man. The way he moved pieces like they would burn his fingertips if they were held for too long. The way his frame trembled gently, a leaf caught in a storm, with what could only have been stress. Not that Fabi noticed him watching, even when the looks became more frequent and more obvious – he was too busy boring holes into his pieces. Maybe it was Ian’s fault he didn’t say anything, didn’t wave the white flag of defeat sooner. But what choice did he have? Two impossible choices were being presented to him – pretend he didn’t notice that he could defend that little bit more, that the position wasn’t being pulled back to a draw and let Fabi have the win he deserved (at least, Ian felt he did deserve that), or play out the rest of the match to its inevitable, unfortunate conclusion and live with the consequences.
Not really choices though were they?
A small noise causes Fabi’s gaze to flicker up briefly, his chair scraping slightly across the floor as Ian moves about, switching the hand his head was resting on as if he couldn’t decide which felt better, indecisive about whether to lean forward in a mockery of interest or stay slumped back in his seat. Regardless of how he tries to bring some comfort back to his limbs, however, it doesn’t soothe the dull pain in his chest. As much as people will say he performed a miraculous escape, call him the new Minister of Defence or whatever they’ll label Ian as, this half-point he’s about to take might as well be the most worthless he’s ever won in his career. It barely means anything when in that singular moment Fabi looks towards him, he sees the pure anguish clouding the eyes of the other man.
More moves are made, reluctantly, the carved wood heavy in Ian’s hand as he plays Qd4 and risks another glance at Fabi. They both know the game is dead and buried, a known endgame that holds no other result unless one of them feels like throwing, which, if it hasn’t happened by now, will definitely never occur. Any chance Fabi had of winning slipped through his fingers a long time ago.
The sigh that slips from Fabi’s lips is little more than a whisper, moving to play Kb4 before finally, finally their eyes meet. Seeing his tiny, sad smile makes Ian want to shake his head vigorously. It’s a dream, a nightmare of what could happen but never will. But that’s okay, he can live with a bad night’s sleep as long as it isn’t-
“Draw?” Fabi murmurs softly, barely audible in Ian’s ears but sharp enough to pierce between his shoulder blades.
real.
He has to force himself to look away for the longest moment, to gaze up at the ceiling and pretend Fabi’s offer is being carefully considered, not that it’s killing him inside that the story has this ending. He’s played his part, yet it feels meaningless. His face probably says it all to their audience watching, how Ian hates what he’s done, what Fabi has done, yet none of it can be changed. The ink has dried on the script, no matter how desperate both of them are to rewrite it and do something different.
All he can do is return Fabi’s smile, pathetically.
“Sorry.”
Fabi’s hand is warm as they shake hands, surrounded by tremulous applause.
Shut up.
The clapping is nothing more than static in his ears, and similar to a little kid he covers his ears to try block it out, block everything out. Now that he doesn’t have the board as a distraction, Ian cannot help but feel even more useless. Only managing a shrug as Fabi turns to acknowledge their audience.
“Alireza must be feeling happy now.” Even the attempt at a joke makes him want to wince and get on his knees in apology. Fabi looks back at him, his gaze unreadable.
“What’s that?”
“Alireza must be feeling happy now.” He repeats lamely, with a weak smile. “Threw the tournament, ruined the tournament for everyone no?”
Say something please.
But Fabi stays silent, the one sign that he’s even listening to Ian’s words a mere twitch of his lips. He takes the opportunity to turn their attention to the board, beginning to analyse the many mistakes, where he could have done better, where the other could’ve been put out of their misery sooner. It’s his punishment; Ian realises, he can’t let it go so soon, with every missed opportunity comes a phantom that will haunt Fabi every time he sits down at a chessboard for the foreseeable future. As much as he wants to say something about it, considering that there’s microphones pointed at them, waiting for their insight, he lets Fabi continue instead, interrupting occasionally with his own ideas on what could have happened differently. A feeble attempt at normality.
It doesn’t take too long for their analysis to peter out into nothingness, because such a conversation can’t be held for too long when both feel drained of life, of sustenance, words pulled taut as wires. That doesn't mean that the resulting silence isn’t uncomfortable, doesn’t swell with every passing second as Ian pushes further back into his chair, some part of him wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole.
If only he could say something, anything, to even dent the settling misery… but he can’t. He’s never been one for cheering someone up, to help them feel better, not that he could help himself either. He feels as useless as a chocolate teapot.
“I’m- I’m very sorry.” The words force themselves out of his throat as Ian rubs at his eyes that are now beginning to sting. Great. Probably the worst outcome of this whole mess is him being caught on camera with tears in his eyes, that he’ll never be able to forget this night.
Fabi stands up, not bothering to move the kings to the centre of the board as he rolls the cord around his ID badge.
“My fault.”
Never mind, this is far worse that what he could have ever imagined.
It wasn’t an apology that he held the draw in the end, Ian had been in far too many, similar situations where the last thing he or Fabi or anyone would want is condescending pity. His stomach twists at the memory of that game in that World Championship, causing him to sink forward so that he rests on the table, head in hands as Fabi’s footsteps move away. Apologising was the only way he could think of to express how miserable he feels that Fabi didn’t win, that he understands how it feels to come so close to the summit before being mercilessly pushed off into the abyss.
Yet Fabi’s already willing to take the brunt of the blame for his own mistakes, to put himself in front of the pack of vultures that is the media. Wearing his fragile heart on his sleeve.
Why does that hurt him so much?
It confuses him, why he feels this way. He and Fabi couldn’t really be called close, but somehow there’s an inexplicable feeling that this game might have changed that distant relationship.
Relationship?
Now he’s just being ridiculous, the resounding bang of his hand against the table induced by a sudden flare of frustration as Ian forces himself to stand, to sign the scoresheet. The sight of the final position too painful to look at any longer as he turns around on autopilot and leaves the playing hall in the opposite direction to where Fabi disappeared.
The gazes of pity, disappointment, the muttered condolences that prickle the back of his neck like needles as Ian gently but firmly pushes his way past the people scattered around the venue make him want to punch something. It feels like they’re at a funeral procession, and while a part of him might have withered and died away, he’s still here, he’s fine. Even if he needs to murmur it under his breath repeatedly before his head will believe otherwise.
Jan only shakes his head, doesn’t stop him entering the empty stairwell as he walks past. Once the door behind him closes, blocking out the sounds of the auditorium and leaving Ian in his makeshift prison, does the shaky exhale trapped in his throat finally escape its binds. The metal of the banister is icy cold as his hands curl around the bar to keep himself upright. Thinking about what happened hurts, the despaired gaze he saw Fabi give himself too often, the- the- the-
It hurts to even try and make himself cry.
Ian sighs, tries to force the swirling maelstrom of emotions in his mind out as words because maybe expressing them will alleviate the hurt, but his throat is too dry to formulate a sound, let alone a word. He can only cough weakly. Time in the stairwell seems to have been caught in mud, held at a sluggish pace. Has he been standing here for five minutes, or five hours?
A small cough startles him out of his thoughts. A FIDE official, he knows because he’s seen the young woman around with the venue staff, is trying to smile apologetically at him, but it doesn’t meet her eyes. She can’t look at him, unwilling to see the lifeless stare she knows will be waiting for her.
“I’m sorry but-” She starts, hesitatingly as she manages to look at him properly. “You’re supposed to be at the press conference. Everyone’s waiting for you so we can begin.”
You want to hold a press conference with two corpses? Ian thinks to himself, has to stop himself from laughing miserably. Instead, he blinks with surprise.
“Is Fabi there?”
The woman nods quickly.
“Yes Fabiano will be there. When I left him to go and look for you, he was already analysing your game on the computer.”
Had to hurt himself even more, I see.
He doesn’t trust his voice, so he merely gestures for her to lead the way back into the fire.
…
Barely a step has been taken into the media room before he’s immediately greeted with a sight that makes Ian want to turn his body around and leave again. Never to come back. Maybe he’s already left the room, he contemplates, having an out-of-body experience as he watches the person who resembles him so much in stature gently push past Fabi still hunched over the computer like it’s his only life source. Watches him reluctantly lean back as the press officer whispers something in his ear, as his doppelganger throws himself in the chair like there are a million other places he would rather be.
And as the press conference is started, the temptation that settles over Ian to stand up and walk out is hard to resist. That would certainly be a statement, of how he feels about having to be here, to paint a smile on his face and pretend he isn’t breaking into irreparable pieces inside.
But that would be selfish, his own feelings nothing more than a drop in the lake of the torment of Fabi’s own creation. He’s too quick to point out his own errors, to desecrate his carefully crafted image by calling himself an idiot, almost laughing at himself because it’s amazing not to win in this position. Ian’s almost waiting for his heart to bleed out of his chest, to relieve its owner of further hurt, lead it into death’s waiting arms. With every self-deprecating comment that the man sitting next to him makes, the harder he has to bite his lip to stop himself from defending him. Hard enough to draw blood, but the pain keeps him withstanding. Maybe they’ll make it through in one piece, or at the very least, mendable.
“Today Hikaru said in the interview that he believes in karma and destiny. After this game, do you believe in destiny?”
The question is directed at Fabi, but Ian’s head whirls around in disbelief.
What fucking kind of question is that? Does he believe he’s fated to playing second-fiddle for the rest of his career?
Fabi pauses, opens his mouth before closing it again without a word while Ian continues to stare incredulously at the woman like she just grew a second head. The insensitivity of her question is baffling, and he wonders what caused her to ask such a thing. He doesn’t even hear the answer Fabi gives, falling further back into his chair once he hears the sad laugh. Enough of an answer, he mutters under his breath.
The rest of the press conference is a blur, Ian only remembers interjecting as they were shown the last winning idea for White. A simple, two-move tactic that any kid could find with the time Fabi had left, let alone two seasoned grandmasters. More pain to heap onto slender shoulders.
“Well, a two-move tactic – Qe8, Qe2…”
“But it was quite difficult to spot with the time you had left.” He blurts before he can stop himself. Fabi turns to look at him with surprise, the weight of his gaze blooming scarlet on Ian’s cheek, before he shakes his head.
“I had five minutes-”
“It was less than that I’m pretty sure.” The words accompanied by a wave at the computer, as he ignores how Fabi gazes at him once more, almost peering into Ian’s soul and questioning why he’s defending him so when he doesn’t deserve such words. A silence follows, before the press officer ploughs on like nothing happened.
He’s grateful for none of the media having questions for either at them at the end of it all, grateful for the olive branch extended to both himself and Fabi as the press officer lets them go “for some rest”. It’s a funny joke, because Ian is pretty sure neither of them will sleep much tonight given the events of the day. Fabi must agree, snorting with amusement as he fixes his jacket, before getting up to leave the room. He’ll be lucky to see him again before their next tournament, some months in the future.
Enough time for the noose around his neck to loosen.
…
The trip back to the hotel is quiet, considering theirs was the last match to conclude for the night. Part of him is surprised to see no Chirila or Oparin as he steps into the van; Fabi is seated at the very back, almost curled in on himself so that he’ll blend into the shadows of the dimly lit vehicle. But it makes sense, he wants to be alone, without their pitying, concerned eyes.
“Are we waiting for anyone else?” The cab driver calls.
Gukesh is still inside the venue, they should probably wait for him, however with the crowd that was swathed inside and out, waiting for the champion to appear…
Fabi’s gaze is firmly fixed on the artificial stars glittering in the darkness above, hand over his mouth as Ian looks back at him, before turning to the front again.
“All good, the others will be another while.”
The only sound that pierces through the resulting silence is that of his phone buzzing.
Jan: I take it you’ve gone back to the hotel?
He decides to reply, it’ll give his hands something to do without trying to look back at the other man seated two rows behind him. Not that Ian had counted or anything.
Didn’t feel like it was my place to be there and didn’t want to take away from the kid. A little truth tied up prettily with an obvious lie. Jan sees through his apology immediately.
Jan: Well if that wasn’t a lie, than I don’t know what is.
Jan: If you want we can talk about it tomorrow.
There’s a pause, but Jan’s still typing, the three little dots bouncing up and down.
Jan: I won’t make you though. Just, don’t do anything that I wouldn’t do, and I’ll see you at the closing ceremony.
But the idea of drinking himself to death, to strangle the life out of the self-hatred, sadness, worry about a man who doesn’t even care about what he thinks, and leave a wasteland behind is too enticing. Too tempting. Ian doubts anyone would really mind if he didn’t appear at the ceremony tomorrow. Why would they miss a man who might as well be dead with the numbness he feels inside?
All he needs is his coffin.
As soon as the cab comes to a halt, he’s quick to leave Fabi behind, disappearing into the hotel that’s too bright, too gauzy with the pitying gazes that follow him, stick to him as Ian practically runs up the stairs to his room. Fabi silently goes up another floor behind him, his room being directly over Ian’s as he hears his footsteps lightly pad on the floorboards above him.
Separating them.
The cold air of his room is more than welcome, the air conditioning on full blast as Ian shrugs off his coat somewhere, maybe on a chair, but all he hears is the rustle of fabric as he throws himself on the bed. Immediately he finds it to be too soft, too comfortable for what he deserves so he rolls over haphazardly. But then the clean white ceiling is too bright for his tired eyes, so reluctantly he gets off the mattress forgoing comfort for cold, exchanging his bed for a can of beer as he steps out onto the small balcony. Hoping that there wasn’t any watchful lenses pointed at his window, waiting for Ian to appear so his pain can be caught forever.
The beer is unpleasantly sour as he takes a sip, but it tastes better than the slimy bile catching in Ian’s throat as he stares out at the city that’s only beginning to arise out of slumber. His elbow rests on the railing, propping up his head.
It’s a lonely sight, being at the top. He always used to wonder how Magnus never cracked when he was at his peak, so many eyes watching his every move, maybe praying for his inevitable fall from grace. The casual arrogance he carried could only carry a man so far, yet Magnus never seemed to crack even after setbacks, as few and far as they were in between. The confidence that oozed from him was never-ending, a thought that tightened his grip on the beer can.
Maybe he’s just better than I’ll ever be.
Two chances at becoming World Champion, two chances to achieve his lifetime ambition… And two chances that he fucked up greatly. What a sorry tale once he retires competitively, if that never changes. He wouldn’t be even able to call himself the greatest player to never become World Champion. That unfortunate accolade would surely go to the man pacing above him, if the heavy thuds were anything to go by.
A particularly heavy crash, as if something was thrown against a wall, startles him slightly, makes Ian’s head turn around as he peers at the ceiling inquisitively, trying to see into the room above him. Fabi seemed like the kind of guy to mope, to hide away from the world that he sees to despise him, hate him for mechanical imperfections that he as a human cannot fix. He certainly didn’t view him as someone to throw something in rage, to lash out and hurt himself even more for making mistakes like this. 2018 must have broken some part inside, that was holding him together as 2021 did for Ian… and 2023.
An idea flickers through his mind, an idea that warrants another sip from the slightly crumpled can in his hand before he decides it’s worth a try.
The six-pack nestled in the room’s fridge, saved for celebrating his third Candidates win that had faded the moment he sat down at the chessboard for the final time this afternoon, is picked up carelessly in his free hand. Ian only makes sure to bring his keycard as the door clicks shut behind him. He expects he’ll be returning soon enough that his phone isn’t necessary.
Thankfully he doesn’t meet anyone, other guests or hotel staff, who wonder why he’s going upstairs to a room that isn’t his. It’s a small mercy, he manages to smile, but quickly it slides off his face, butter on a hot pan, as he stands outside Fabi’s door, something cold taking its place in his stomach. Why he feels apprehensive as he raises his hand to knock once, before lowering it again the more he thinks about what he’s about to do, Ian isn’t sure.
After a small moment of internal confliction, of whether to be aggressive and push or play it safe, he knocks on the door. Ian was never one to avoid pushing for an advantage, to not back down and wait.
The lack of response was expected, but he’s emboldened by the cease of the pacing. He can almost imagine Fabi looking at the door, wondering who wants to bother him at such a time. Or maybe he was imagining the noises he heard from downstairs, an idea that seems more likely the longer the quietness holds. Ian’s about to shrug, accept that his idea was yet another to add to an already long list of ideas that find a way to not work out, before a hesitant voice calls out, slightly muffed by the solid wood of the door.
“Cristian… If that’s you then I’m sorry for running away, but I’ll talk to you tomorrow okay?”
Looks like I’m not the only one who’s a bad liar.
“It’s… me. Don’t think Cristian got back yet.”
“…Ian?” Fabi’s voice sounds confused, but a bit closer to the door. He can scarcely hold his breath, the sounds of someone shuffling around inside causing Ian’s head to perk up as the door slides open.
Their eyes meet for what feels like only the second time today.
Fabi gazes at him questioningly with tired eyes, the rings of purple a stark contrast against pale skin as he leans against the door. Once crisp and tidy, his slacks are rumpled, shirt unbuttoned slightly. Ian probably shouldn’t be staring, but the alcohol buzzes in his veins, doesn’t allow him to drag his eyes away and-
Fabi coughs politely, stops short this weird train of thoughts as he sees the beers in Ian’s hands, and gestures for him to step inside with a murmur of maybe come in before someone else sees you. He’s being cordial at best, but the fact Ian hasn’t been pushed away already feels like a small victory. It deserves a small smile as he places his goods on the coffee table, while Fabi closes the door behind him.
“I guess you aren’t here to pity me, or anything like that, so to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
The room seems to impossibly shrink with Fabi’s question. He’s comforted by the lack of distrust lacing his words, but the curiosity doesn’t stop Ian from freezing. His mouth opens and closes wordlessly, having to let the slight warm beer wet his throat as he pretends to think. Why did he have this idea in the first place? Fabi won’t believe him if he blames the alcohol, deciding to visit him on a whim.
“I…” He stops as Fabi appears in front of his eyes, moving to sit on the bed with a soft thwump. “I don’t know honestly,” Fabi’s brow furrows, cracking open the can clasped in his hands. “It just felt like the right thing to do.”
Fabi nods, letting his words wash over him as he takes a delicate sip from his can.
“Nothing to do with me throwing my phone against the wall over there?”
Sure enough, Fabi’s phone lies lifelessly on the floor as he gestures behind Ian, cracks spiralling out like a spiderweb that almost glitter with the low light of the bedside lamp.
“I mean…” His face warms as Fabi refuses to stop staring at him. “What was I supposed to do? With everything that happened earlier and then I hear such a noise from above-” Fabi waves a hand to stop him embarrassing himself even further, but his cheeks only darken to a deeper scarlet.
“I thought it might help you understand, I didn’t mean to make you feel like you didn’t have an excuse to be here.”
Does that mean…?
“There’s no need to look at me like that, if you really want to you can stay.” Fabi’s voice is soft, gentle, almost reassuring as Ian inadvertently voices the thought he didn’t mean to say out loud. “It’s nice not to be alone.”
When the silence grows this time, it’s less suffocating with the weight of expectation, and more bearable to take another drink.
“What will you do now?” He winces at how shaky his voice sounds from mere minutes of disuse, but Ian continues anyways, hoping he isn’t pushing any boundaries. At first, the sigh he’s rewarded with leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, but Fabi manages a reply.
“My next event isn’t for a month, so nothing much until then.”
And…
“More time to try and forget today ever happened, I suppose.”
There it is.
It was the answer he was expecting, so Ian slowly nods.
“I don’t know how I’ll manage this time, however.” Fabi smiles sadly at his can, something gleaming dark in his eyes as he gazes up at the other man. “How do you do it?”
“How do I…?”
“Get over what happened against Magnus, against Ding, tonight even?”
It’s a loaded question, the gun pointed directly at his skull as Fabi contemplates whether to pull the trigger or not. Memories of game 6, game 12, the last tiebreak game appear and fade in his mind just as swiftly as they come. His team looking at him apologetically as he stumbled out of the playing hall, the devastation as clear on his face as the sound of the pieces he knocked over on his way out. The whispers that he would never get another chance, that it was meant to be that he’d never win the world title.
The same look reflected on Fabi’s face when he played Bh7.
“Well I never did.” Ian starts, before Fabi can cut across and ask if he’s okay, apologising for asking such a question like the kind soul he is. “I… always think that such events were meant to live on with me, always a reminder in the back of my mind when I blunder and lose and throw games away. Why should I be allowed to forget?”
There’s a faint spark of surprise in Fabi’s eyes.
“Rook g6?”
“Bishop h4?” Is the obvious counter, the forced mate in 30 that only a computer could find against Magnus Carlsen. And while his heart bleeds a little at the flare of pain in Fabi’s eyes, because he knows exactly what Ian is referencing, he understands him. He understands.
Before he can help himself further, the alcohol spurring him on (or maybe it’s something else entirely), he gestures besides Fabi on the bed, who scoots over without a word. The duvet sinks with their combined weight, but Fabi only has eyes for him.
“Do you think you’ll get another chance?”
He suspects that Fabi is addressing more than just the other man in the room, but he merely shrugs in response.
“If that was my last chance, so be it. I’ve already had too many opportunities and didn’t make any of them count.” The beginnings of a frown on Fabi’s face make him pause for thought, but when he doesn’t interrupt Ian continues. “I’m sure, no, I know this wasn’t your last time here though, because that’s what you were asking me, right?”
“I don’t know what I’m asking,” whispers Fabi, a hint of alcohol on his breath as he starts swaying slightly. “Maybe because I don’t think I’ll be here even again…” Uttered as nothing more than a sigh, but the finality of his words pierces deep within Ian’s core. He’s never heard Fabi sound so despondent, even after his World Championship match. The alcohol was a bad idea, Ian concludes, frowning, almost flinching at the heat prickling up his side whenever Fabi leans into him. He was never one to socialise, to go out drinking after tournaments, so that should have been a clue about how low his alcohol tolerance was.
And now he feels useless once more. What a sad pair they make, one with a delicately bleeding heart, the other with no feeling of how to help. Well, no feeling of if what Ian is about to do will help.
Fabi freezes as a broad hand wraps around his shoulder in a gentle, but firm grip. Pulling his body flush against Ian’s, his head resting on his chest. The reflex to pull the other man close confuses him immensely, startles him even,, but the twinge in his chest hurts less now that Fabi cannot sway erratically. He files the thought away for later consideration, for when Ian doesn’t have such a warm weight practically draped on top of him.
Just let us enjoy this moment, please.
They sit there on Fabi’s bed, maybe for a couple of minutes, maybe longer. Gradually, the sadness shared by the pair seeps out through the open window and into the inky blackness of the night. It’s replaced with something unnameable but laced with something dangerously tempered hot. At least, that’s Ian’s reasoning for his fingers to gently, carefully, hesitatingly trace a path up Fabi’s neck and into a mess of curls. Lightly scraping his scalp, he doesn’t miss the puff of hot air that tickles his neck as Fabi huffs happily. The cans have been completely forgotten about, his nerves alight with wonder as Ian repeats the movement, watches with wide eyes as Fabi inexplicably pushes his head up into Ian’s hand.
“I thought I only adopted Ricky…” He murmurs, too quiet for Fabi’s ears to pick up, though he suspects the other man’s attention is completely elsewhere at the moment. “But I’ve adopted another cat now it appears.”
His face flushes scarlet at his own words, relieved that with Fabi’s face buried in the crook of his neck Ian’s embarrassment goes unnoticed for now. Really, now is neither the time nor the place to be having such thoughts. His role is that of guided comfort, any more than that and Ian is veering onto dangerous, uncharted territory. Their relationship was a working one before today, friendly of course, but nothing special. Could he even call Fabi a friend? What was-
“Ian?”
He almost swears at the sight Fabi’s bleary eyes looking at his own confused ones.
“Are you okay?”
Fabi pulls away slightly from his slackened grip, so he can look at the other more closely. His heart is beginning to crack with something he isn’t yet ready to name, the longer Fabi keeps gazing at him.
“We’ll- We’ll both be here next time, promise. And the next time after that, and the next time, until one of us becomes World Champion.”
His words hold a little too much honesty, it’s Ian’s turn to wear his heart on his sleeve and while Fabi’s eyes initially widen with surprise, something else sparkles underneath. Something uniquely Fabi.
“So… You’ll be here in the morning too?”
“If you want me to be.” Ian replies easily, almost smiling at the dusting of pink that appears on Fabi’s cheeks. He could get used to the sight more often, of course only if Fabi allows it. “But first you need to sleep, you’ve worn yourself out too much.”
The invitation is more than enough for Fabi’s body weight to completely sag into his own, pushing them both back so that they’re lying back on the bed. Together. In another world Ian would be mortified, immediately pushing Fabi away from him and claiming that tonight never happened, but, well, he finds he doesn’t want to do any of that.
What can only be described as a blissful smile appears on his face as one of Fabi’s arms comes to snake around his waist, his breath slowing to something gentler and more languid, before petering into soft little snores.
With the drama of today, it doesn’t take much longer for Ian’s eyes to flutter shut, exhaustion draining his heart dry of life as he joins the other into sleep’s beckoning arms.
He is almost fearful that Fabi won’t be there when he wakes up tomorrow, that tonight was nothing more than a mere figment of his imagination.