Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Remis (n.)

Definition: A draw. Literally translated, “a reset.”

…whether you take the cultural association between chess and the divine right of kings at face value, one thing remains undeniably true. Chess is generally considered a sport of the upper class. 

A closer look at the game, of course, reveals that this is far from true. Plenty of grandmasters and indeed world champions have been born to middle-class and low-income families. The wealthy might be able to buy their way up the ladder with lessons and dedicated coaching, but there are more possible variations in chess than there are atoms in the Universe. At some point, there is no choice but to stop studying and start playing.

Still, for every pro player you might meet in a t-shirt and slacks, you’ll encounter a dozen in button-up shirts and suits. Many who start out among the former are quick to shed their daily clothes for a tailored ensemble, once the victories start pouring in.

And among both these groups, Charles Rowland—with his patched ska jacket and the gold cross that dangles from his left earlobe—stands out. He’s showy but not posh. Styled but never pretentious. 

He attended St. Hilarion’s Academy for Boys, a well-regarded private boarding school, but his family could only afford it on an athletic scholarship. (His mum is a nursing assistant; his father, a manager at a local office building.) There, he earned middling grades and had only sports for extracurriculars. On paper, there is nothing about Charles Rowland to indicate a future passion for a game like chess.

Aaron Thompson, captain of St. Hilarion’s cricket team for two of the three years that Rowland played, commented: “Never had an inkling that Chaz would go in for all that stuff, honestly. He was good at cricket though. Came up with some smart plays. Wicked swing, too. Stronger than he looks.”

Rowland insists that his sporting days aren’t behind him. He’ll certainly never be a professional athlete, he explains, and he doesn’t really want to be—but he does try to keep in shape. Jogging a kilometer or two the morning of a match apparently helps him focus. 

“Drowns out all the white noise,” he explains with a shrug, as if he has not just said something utterly unique. Every other professional chess player spends their pre-game trying to conserve energy, not work it out.

And while Rowland’s natural talent has catapulted him to grandmaster status, it is his fierce dedication to being truly and simply himself that has made him (and by extension, professional chess, for the first time since the seventies) a public obsession. His meteoric rise began with a short, slightly blurry video, published first to TikTok—then to Instagram and Twitter, spreading like wildfire. The caption? Wtf. No one told me that chess players were fit as fuck these days. 

The video captures only the very end of Rowland’s match against Brazilian player Alexander Serra, in which he checkmates his opponent with a decisive flourish, shakes Serra’s hand with what seems like genuine warmth, then sprawls languidly back in his chair. From a journalist’s perspective, the description that comes to mind is that he looks not unlike a lion out in the African savanna, stretching out after a hunt—powerful, relaxed, assured. 

From the perspective of social media, user @frogfidgetspinner80085 might’ve summed it up best when they wrote: he has captivated me. he has the face of a marble statue and the legs of a whore. i think he COULD fix me but what i really need is for him to fold me like a lawn chair and break my back. 

He’s now almost two years into his career, and while the internet’s sexual obsession has (mostly) cooled off into fondness, his popularity hasn’t gone anywhere. Of course, it’s not too late for him to vanish into obscurity. Only time will tell if he’ll one day fade abruptly from the public memory. But for now? For now, Charles Rowland has made chess sexy again. 

When asked, he only smiles, sheepish and a normal amount of uncomfortable, considering some of the very graphic things that people have written about him. 

“Just glad that people are finally catching on, honestly,” he says. It should sound false, utterly curated, but this answer seems as authentic as everything else about him. “It’s great to be liked and all, but some of these players? They’re the real deal. They deserve twice the attention I’m getting, and—

Edwin rips the magazine in half. Then he drops it in the bin.

“Jesus Christ, Edwin,” Crystal says, eyeing him suspiciously over the kitchen island. “I was going to read that, you asshole.”

“It was a poorly written profile,” Edwin informs her with a sniff. He leans back on the sofa. “Chess did not become good just because some ex-cricketer decided to start playing.”

“You sound like a hipster, dude,” Crystal informs him. She stirs an absolutely criminal amount of sugar into her coffee, then a much more modest spoonful into the cup of earl grey she’s made for Edwin. “And I’m pretty sure they said sexy. Not good.”

“I don’t know what a hipster is. And they clearly mean to imply—”

“You don’t know what a hipster is?”

“Should I?”

“Demographically, yes. But now that you say it, I’m like, duh. Of course Edwin doesn’t know what a fucking hipster is. Don’t worry about it.”

“I won’t,” Edwin replies dryly. He takes the mug from her when she sticks it in his face. It’s hot nearly to the point of burning his palms, so he slowly shifts it from one hand to the other.

“Scooch” Crystal orders, and Edwin obligingly moves so she can curl up on the cushion beside him.

There’s a foot of space between them, as they both prefer. He and Crystal hug sometimes. She even gives him the occasional pat on the back, and he doesn’t hate it. But they are not cuddling friends, really. Not unless it’s a bad night indeed.

“Listen. I know,” Crystal says, with the tone of someone preempting a difficult conversation, “it’s your first championship circuit since you lost the last one. And you don’t want any more eyes on you right now, which is fair. And honestly, I bet he is kind of a douche. No one is actually that nice.”

“Is this supposed to be making me feel better?”

“I’m getting to it! No one is that nice…but he’ll keep it up for the cameras. Chess doesn’t pay half as well as those branded sponsorships he’s always landing, and he’s not going to jeopardize that. All you have to worry about is ignoring the cameras and playing your little heart out. That’s it.”

“That’s it,” Edwin echoes. He takes a sip of his tea, then grimaces. It is still scalding. “Thank you for that thoughtful analysis. Very helpful.”

“Oh, shut up. Anyway, I bet you won’t even have to play him. There’s, what, two-hundred players at this thing? Single round elim?” At Edwin’s affirmative sound, she grins. “I bet he’ll be out before he even makes it into the same room as you.”

Edwin considers this for a moment. 

“Alright,” he finally says. If she’s right (which she probably is), then Edwin wins by virtue of receiving a little extra peace of mind. If she’s wrong, Edwin still wins by virtue of getting to gloat. It will be excellent stress relief. “I’ll take that wager.”

“Okaaaay,” Niko says, dropping a manila file onto the desk in front of Charles. “So this year’s World Cup is gonna be a little weird. 212 players, and only first place is making it to the Candidates Tournament. They haven’t done that since 2009. Usually the top two runner ups make it too, but I guess competition’s really stiff this year. They accepted a player from the Grand Prix, and they’re doing one more rating-based invitation than usual.”

It’s not that difficult to hear what she isn’t saying: If Charles doesn’t take first place, he’s lost his chance to guarantee himself a spot as a candidate. Which means that he’ll have no shot at the Championship. 

“You’re not my PA, you know,” Charles points out gently. “You didn’t have to put this together.”

“PR is sort of the same thing, if you think about it,” Niko flips the file open when Charles starts to laugh, pulling him back on track. “Kingham and Litty will kill me if I don’t do this, anyway. So the first three or four games should be pretty easy for you. It’s those final few rounds where you’re really gonna have to watch out. Everyone’s going to be out for blood.”

Charles doesn’t need a warning on that front. Chess players make cricket look like child’s play—but then, cricket is a team sport, isn’t it? As awful as Charles’ “friends” turned out to be in the end, they always managed to work together on the field. 

In chess, everyone’s out for themselves. It’s thrilling, up until it makes you want to retch.

“They’d kill you for not working outside your job description?” Charles says, instead of any of that.

“Probably,” replies Niko, half in sing-song. She doesn’t seem bothered. Charles is, but it’s not like there’s much he can do about it. His dad is the one paying Dandelion PR & Marketing, and even if Charles kept his winnings rather than putting them in the family account, he’d never be able to afford what Niko is actually worth. Not that she’s making that now, either.

“Don’t look so sad,” Niko says then, laying both her hands over one of his. “I basically get paid to hang out with you,” her smile is sweet and small, “and that’s great for me. Cause I love hanging out with you. Now!” she taps a piece of paper that has the starting brackets, and blank spaces all along for them to fill in. On the line that marks Charles’ potential path to victory, she’s used a pencil to lightly sketch in a few suggestions. “These are the players, statistically, that you’ll most likely be playing.”

She rattles off a few names in order. Some are distantly familiar, and some Charles definitely knows. One of them is Maren Reid—he’s played her a few times and always won. She’s sweet, if rather quiet, and not an especially aggressive player. There are a few other big names that Charles recognizes too, either by reputation or from passing meetings in the tournament circuit. 

“The biggest challenge is if you make it to the final round,” Niko continues. “I mean, obviously. But even more than usual, because if you make it to the final round, you’ll be playing against Edwin Paine.” She does a little flourish with her hands.

That gets Charles to look up. “Didn’t know Paine was playing.”

“Last-minute entry,” Niko says with a shrug.

Charles runs a tongue over his front teeth as he thinks. “How sure are we that he’ll make it to the final?” he finally asks. Paine is an actual child prodigy. He’s been winning games against grandmasters since he was eight. And he was the World Champion for four years straight. Charles didn’t even pick up a chess board until he was seventeen.

Apparently, he’s a bit of a prick. And that’s frankly an understatement, based on what Charles has heard. The entire chess community supposedly breathed a great collective sigh of relief when he lost his Championship match-up a few years ago and subsequently dropped off the map. Which feels rather bad, to Charles. Arsehole or not, it’s got to be awful, losing something so publicly and having the entire (chess) world tip their cups in celebration. No wonder he vanished for a while.

“It’s basically guaranteed,” Niko informs him brightly. “He played Wijk aan Zee earlier this year on a whim, and he apparently cleaned fucking house.”

Charles’ stomach sinks. He’d been intending to play at that tournament, and the only reason he hadn’t was because he’d landed in the hospital with a broken arm the day before his flight. Paine’s win is public knowledge. But…

“You don’t ‘clean house’ at the Wijk,” Charles says.

“I mean, he did. Beat last year’s winner in only twenty-seven moves, apparently.”

Paine? Who’s known for playing games that run agonizingly long? “Fuck.”

“Aw,” Niko says. “Don’t be scared.”

“Hey! Never said I was scared, did I?”

“You sound scared. But I bet he’s not as bad as everyone says,” Niko continues, voice going a little dreamy. “He’s got kind eyes, don’t you think?”

“Um.” Charles definitely does not think that Edwin Paine has kind eyes. He thinks that Edwin Paine has the eyes of someone who beat the record for youngest World Champion by six years, then kept that title for two championship cycles despite the entire competitive circuit braying for his blood—guarded and cold, always probing for a weakness to exploit.  

“My sources say that he mentored Becky Aspen during his break.” Niko takes her phone out of her jacket pocket, purple bunny rabbit charm swinging from the bottom of her chunky plastic case, and pulls up a picture of a preteen girl with dark skin and a head of cloud-spun curls. Aspen is sitting in front of a chess board, face scrunched up in concentration as she regards her position—which is not very good, she’s got no choice but to give up a bishop if she wants to get out of check. A banner on the wall behind her says FIDE World Youth Championship in big blue letters. “She placed third in the under-12 category.”

“Your source wouldn’t be Twitter, would it?” 

“It’s technically X, now,” says Niko. Then: “God, sorry. Ignore me. My bosses told me I have to say that. I think Elon Musk is Kingham’s uncle or something. And no, thank you, my source is Instagram. Her parents posted a picture of them together.” 

She scrolls for a second, then turns her phone around again. This time, Aspen is standing on the concrete steps in front of a giant event center, some sort of blocky brutalist building that swallows up the entire background of the photo. She has a giant golden trophy in her arms and has wobbled back onto one foot, apparently struggling to keep her balance as she beams at the camera with a gap-toothed grin. Paine is next to her, though perhaps a pace or so behind. The fingers of his left hand are hooked through one of the trophy’s handles, either trying to snatch it from her grip or help her with the weight, and it doesn’t seem like he’s noticed the camera at all. From this angle, his face is mostly out of shot, but he’s wearing the exact same frown that Charles recognizes from his championship photos, a perpetual sort of dismay and exasperation like day-to-day existence is just another inconvenience to his chess career.

He’s in a suit, which feels a bit overkill for what is very clearly a children’s tournament even with the jacket unbuttoned. It’s a good photo, though. He looks handsome—and charming in an intimidating sort of way, like he’s stepped right out of the glory days of chess, back when it was all about the States and the USSR duking it out to prove who was smarter.

“Think he’s got a PR team too?” Charles asks, only half-joking.

Niko tilts her head like she’s considering it in earnest. “I’m pretty sure you’re the only chess player alive with PR. But that’s beside the point.” She shoves her phone further into his face. “He’s nice!”

“And really good at chess,” Charles points out. He closes the folder, because if he gets anymore in his own head about this tournament he might actually have a breakdown. “You’re aware I can’t beat him, right?” 

“Oh,” Niko says, shoulders slumping. Charles feels bad right away, but she rallies quickly. “I think you’re being hard on yourself! But even if you can’t…I mean, losing to Edwin Paine would be cool, wouldn’t it? He’s, like, the best. Well, other than the guy who beat him, I guess.”

“Alessi,” Charles supplies, automatically. He’s seen Salvatore Alessi a few times at tournaments, though never played against him. The guy is good, but he’s got a weird fixation on technicalities. His strategy, more often than not, is to confuse his opponents into running out the clock. It always seemed a bit unsporting to Charles. He’d admittedly prefer to lose to someone like Paine. “And maybe. Doubt my dad will see it that way, though. Already missed the two other big tournaments on my list for this year, didn’t I?”

They don’t technically need the money. Second or third place will still make his family about as much as his dad used to earn over the course of an entire year. But it isn’t first, and it doesn’t get him to the bloody Championship.

“Hey,” Niko offers. Her eyes are wide and solemn. “Who knows? He could get hit by a car. Then you’d win by default.”

Charles groans.

The month-long stretch of the World Cup is perhaps the most stressed that Charles has ever been. His dad, at least, wasn’t able to fly out to Prague. But he is watching, and he texts Charles every night. His thoughts. His advice. Not to mention his strategic recommendations, which never make a lick of sense, and Charles is always trying to explain that he goes with his gut, with his read of the room, but he still gets upset when Charles ignores his advice, no matter how well it turns out in the end.

He feels so awful, nearly feverish with anxiety, that he honestly has no idea how he makes it to the end. The entire event is a strange, fragmented blur. Over two-hundred of the best players in the world, and somehow he reaches the final bracket? That cannot possibly be right, and Charles feels hunted—pursued into every room by the sense that someone’s about to notify the world that there’s been a terrible mistake, and really there’s another grandmaster here to play the former world champion.

No one does. It should be the greatest achievement of his career, sinking into the seat across from Edwin Paine. Instead, Charles feels a bit like he’s about to die.

Paine looks very much like his photos. He’s in a gray suit—buttoned, this time—with a blue tie, and his dark hair is pomaded meticulously, combed into place with a rigorous sort of precision that Charles could never dream of achieving. The only difference is perhaps that his features are even more angular than a camera can capture, all sharp planes that get washed away by the lens. His nose is a touch crooked too, and his ears stick out in a way that makes him look younger than 24. Yet each feature, when taken together, could not form a more perfect picture. 

A few cameras flash from behind a velvet rope. Paine scowls down at the board, staring at his lineup of black pieces like they’ve wronged him personally. 

He does nothing when Charles extends a hand in his direction. It’s impossible to tell, with his gaze averted as it is, whether he’s ignoring the gesture intentionally or whether he simply doesn’t see it.

Charles drops his hand lamely back into his own lap. “Absolutely brills to meet you,” he says, tuning out the muttering of the crowd. “Good match last week, by the way.”

Good for Paine, at least. He’d defeated Therese Ellicot, and it had scarcely seemed like he was paying attention. Much like now. 

But finally, finally, Paine glances up from his study of the board, gracing Charles with little more than a pensive frown. Charles nearly startles, partly because he wasn’t expecting his comment to work and partly because Paine’s eyes are definitely brighter than he expected, oceanic in color and depth alike. “You were watching.”

“Course I was.” 

“Hm.” A small pinch forms between Paine’s brows. “I see. I watched your matches as well.”

Charles waits, but Paine doesn’t elaborate. In fact, he doesn’t say another word.

They play for five hours before the organizers decide that they ought to adjourn for the night. Paine rolls his eyes at the verdict, which is the most emotion that Charles has seen from him all day. And it’s hardly any wonder—Paine’s reputation precedes him, and Charles has spent the past several months trying to study his games, even though most of them are so long that they’re difficult to watch all the way through. All that is nonetheless very different from actually playing against him.

It’s one thing to know that Paine has a strong defense. Charles also knows, for instance, that it would probably hurt a great deal if he for some reason decided to walk into a brick wall. It’s another thing entirely to tend to your broken nose after trying—or to observe your side of the board and realize that you’ve been pinned in no fewer than three places. 

Paine seals his next move in an envelope. On that piece of paper, which Charles can’t see—which Charles isn’t allowed to see until tomorrow—is no doubt the call that is going to send his entire, cobbled-together strategy crashing down. Checkmate. Game over.

His dad is going to be so fucking angry.

Niko is waving to him from somewhere in the very back of the audience. Charles doesn’t have the heart to disappoint her, so he cranes his neck in the hopes that she can see him and offers her a small grin. It probably looks like he’s smiling at the cameras, and normally he would be. But this one’s all for her. 

And as soon as they’re dismissed, he turns tail like a coward and flees the room. 

The crowds are just as bad as Edwin expected. The only reason they aren’t worse is because Edwin was, in fact, prepared for them to be quite bad.

They have been, luckily, preoccupied with Rowland more than anyone else. But Edwin already knows that he’s no doubt been caught in the crossfire—if only because he’s now the one thing standing between perhaps the most widely beloved player alive and the Candidates Tournament. 

Rowland, for his part, is unpolished but certainly not untalented. He’d opened unconventionally, and then he’d kept surprising Edwin all along. Unfortunately for him, instinct and idiosyncratic plays do not win a game alone, and at this point, Edwin is fairly certain that he sees a path to victory. 

The game is his. And if he can reclaim his championship, he won’t have to worry about the circuit until someone comes along to challenge the title in two years or so. 

It’s nearly over. 

That is the reassurance that Edwin repeats to himself as he steps into the lavatories. He’s made it fairly far from the area of the hotel where the games are being held, so he’s looking forward to being able to wash his face and collect himself in peace. Perhaps he’ll stare in the mirror and have a bit of a crisis about how his life has come to this, fighting for a title that he never should’ve lost to begin with. Then, when the crowd has thinned a bit, he’ll retreat back to his room and stay there the entire rest of the night.

…Or maybe he won’t, because there is someone vomiting in one of the bathroom stalls. 

Christ in fucking heaven. The person gags a few times, violently, and Edwin waits. He is going to hold off on having a psychological episode until this person is done with their…gastrointestinal dilemma. 

Eventually, the awful retching slows. A minute later, it stops. 

The person is still breathing too heavily, really only just short of hyperventilation. It lasts long enough that Edwin’s mild annoyance fades to concern. Is this a proper medical emergency? He’s just about to knock and ask as much when they slowly pick themselves up off the floor. The stall door swings open, and—

It’s Rowland. Rowland, still in his jacket, that distractingly shiny earring glinting under the fluorescent lights.

“Sorry about the noise,” Rowland says, eyes flicking over to the mirror. “Just a bit of nerves. Hope I didn’t…” he does a double take, as he apparently actually sees Edwin this time, “gross you out.”

Boys like Charles Rowland—proper lads, who play sports and have friends and are generally adored—aren’t supposed to get so nervous that they throw up. Or hyperventilate. And they certainly aren’t supposed to look worried about how a boy like Edwin might react to their presence. 

It’s frankly a bit suspicious. Edwin’s not quite sure how or why. It simply is.

“Jesus, fuck,” Rowland says. “Sorry ‘bout that. No idea what came over me. I just, yeah, don’t worry. And sorry about the smell too, I—”

“You’re rambling,” Edwin points out. It’s meant to be an observation, but Charles stops short as if he’s received a stern reprimand instead.

“Am I? Shit, I am,” Rowland brings a hand up as if to rub at his face, then apparently remembers at the last moment that he hasn’t washed them yet. He stumbles over to the sink and runs them under the water. “No idea what’s gotten into me, mate.”

“You said ‘nerves,’” Edwin reminds him promptly. 

“Oh.” Rowland swallows hard. “Right, guess I did say that. Sorry.”

This is probably where Edwin ought to make his exit. But, well…

He’s always enjoyed a good mystery, and Charles Rowland is behaving very mysteriously.

“...If you don’t mind me asking,” Edwin asks after a long beat. “Nerves about what?”

Rowland stares at him. Then he stares at Edwin some more. The instinctive terror that has full ownership of Edwin’s heart clenches down until it can scarcely manage a full beat.

“You’re serious?” says Rowland.

Edwin can’t bring himself to answer.

“Mate, you’re…wow.”

And that is a tone with which Edwin is exceptionally familiar. “Am I,” he says flatly in response.

Rowland immediately looks apologetic. “Not like that. I just,” he gestures at Edwin, of all things. “You know?”

“Indeed,” says Edwin. Mostly because he’s not entirely sure what else to say. He folds his hands behind his back. 

“Sorry, I’m being selfish, huh?” says Rowland. “Not trying to make you feel bad, I swear.”

There’s a light sheen of sweat on his brow, plastering a few dark curls to his forehead.

Feel bad? Edwin frowns. “This is about the game?” 

“I mean, yeah. What else would it be about? Mm, no. Don’t answer that, actually.”

Edwin shuts his mouth obligingly, even though the entire notion seems absurd. Rowland is the up and comer, between the two of them. This is only his second World Cup. He’s already shattered every expectation set upon him—win or lose, people will be singing praises of his performance at this tournament for years.

Meanwhile, if Edwin loses, he’ll only confirm every snide comment made about how he peaked at eighteen. If he wins, he’ll be throwing out the death threats for months to come. 

But Rowland apparently doesn’t realize that he can, quite frankly, only come out on top here. Edwin would perhaps be frustrated—if the entire image weren’t so damn familiar.

He sighs, producing a handkerchief from his breast pocket. “Here you are,” he says, when Rowland goes for the nearest paper towel dispenser and finds it empty.

Rowland’s eyes go wide like he’s just been offered the keys to a new car. “Thanks, mate,” he says, smearing his hands dry on the fabric. 

“Your opening move surprised me,” Edwin informs him, trying very much not to look at how Rowland’s now dabbing at his forehead with the same cloth. The germaphobe in him is absolutely wailing. 

“Oh,” Rowland’s brown cheeks have gone ruddy, but the blush seems humiliated rather than pleased. “Shit. Really? Don’t know what I was thinking, honestly.”

“I didn’t say it was a poor choice,” Edwin points out. “Simply that it took me off guard.” To most, that would be a good thing.

“Yeah, well. Bit me in the ass, didn’t it?”

Edwin had exploited Rowland’s unusually slow move toward center for all that it was worth. But it certainly hadn’t been enough to win him the game—not yet, at least.

He sighs. This would all be much easier if Rowland didn’t look so damn torn up about the entire thing. Then, at least, Edwin could write the display off as inauthentic. 

“Rowland,” he says, and before he can get any further, Rowland grimaces and looks up at him with a pinched, unhappy expression.

“Charles is fine,” he corrects, sounding distinctly off-put. “No one calls me ‘Rowland.’”

If surnames are an issue, chess is an extremely poor game of choice, but Edwin is wise enough to keep that thought to himself. “Charles, then.” The informality feels only a little strange. “Rest assured, if your opening was too egregious a mistake, the game would not have gone on this long. I haven’t adjourned a game since my first Championship, you know.” 

Gadling remains, to this day, perhaps the best that Edwin has ever played. He was also one of the few pros who didn’t mind Edwin’s general existence—and possibly the only one who was actually friendly with him at all. 

He’s always been disappointed by the fact that Gadling chose that year to retire. Though if he’d stayed in the game, Edwin almost certainly would’ve lost the title of champion right back to him during the next go round. Now he’s happily teaching children somewhere in the States with his husband, and Edwin’s got to fend for himself. 

“That’s really fucking nice,” Charles says. He looks stricken.

“I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but I’m not known for being ‘nice.’”

“I dunno. My friend Niko’s going to lose her mind when I tell her about this.” Edwin bristles, but before he can turn on his heel and leave, Charles continues: “She keeps insisting you’re sweet and that the other players don’t understand you. Or something like that.”

“...I think they understand me well enough,” Edwin says, uncomfortably. They understand him enough to know that they don’t like him, certainly. 

“Right,” Charles pushes himself off the counter. “I’ll let you get back to it, then. Let me clean this,” he waves the handkerchief, “and I’ll give it back.”

He’s nearly out the door when Edwin says, for reasons that he himself frankly isn’t sure of: “Why did you start playing chess?”

“Um,” Charles pauses with his hand poised over the door knob. “I started learning while I was in h—”

“That’s not what I asked. Plenty of people learn chess. I asked why you started playing.”

“Playing like…professionally?”

“Professionally,” Edwin says. “For fun. However you want to interpret it. It certainly doesn’t matter to me. Most people play a few matches then never pick up a board again. Why aren’t you one of them?”

Charles laughs a little. “Hell of a question, innit. Lots of reasons, but, um. Guess I liked it? Whole little world in there to focus on.” He pauses, then regards Edwin with a furrowed brow. “Don’t tell me I should just have fun and forget about the rest, cause that’s bloody easy to say when your rating is 150 points higher than mine.”

“Oh, no,” Edwin replies, unable to stop his mouth from twitching into a grin. “Winning is by far the best part.” And losing is the worst, at least in Edwin’s book. “But if I might offer a little advice?”

“Sure.” Surprisingly, Charles doesn’t sound in the least bit suspicious. 

“Focus on that ‘little world,’ as you called it. You’re trying to beat me in there, not out here,” Edwin says.  “Ratings say one thing. But the board often says another. Listen to it.”

Charles stares for long enough that Edwin nearly wants to duck into a stall, just to hide from the scrutiny.

“So you’re, like, a proper chess genius, huh,” is what he finally says. 

“I am exceptional,” Edwin shrugs. There is no guideline for what exactly makes someone a chess genius, as Charles is apparently phrasing it, but earning the title of World Champion is probably close enough. “Statistically speaking.” 

It hasn’t been enough to save him, but such is life.

“Bloody hell,” says Charles. “See you tomorrow, alright? Thanks.”

And then he’s gone. Edwin washes his face in the sink, then realizes belatedly that there are no towels and his handkerchief is gone. He uses the sleeve of his suit to dab his face dry instead. Luckily, he brought another. 

It really isn’t fair. 

Charles Rowland wasn’t supposed to be likable. 

Edwin sleeps poorly. And while he tries to force himself to eat upon waking, he’s always been prone to early-morning nausea. It is why he prefers afternoon games, and why he hates adjourning. He gets no more than two bites into his room-service eggs before he realizes that he can’t possibly stomach another mouthful.

He calls Crystal.

She picks up on the second ring. The sound of traffic in the background nearly drowns out her reply. “I know, I know. You’re playing Rowland after all. You were right, I was wrong. I’ll add it to the board, and I’ll buy you dinner, okay?”

“Remind me what happens if I lose this?” Edwin asks.

“Woah,” she says, but she doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, for one, you aren’t going to lose. Two, nothing. You dust yourself off, get back up, and try again. Who gives a fuck?”

“Most of the professional chess community, I imagine.”

“Yeah, and we give a fuck about the opinions of people who are actively rooting for your downfall why?”

Because they would like nothing more than to watch Edwin experience a second fall from grace, especially so soon after the first. 

“We don’t,” Edwin replies. “I simply hate to give them the satisfaction.”

“Good. You fucking should,” Crystal says firmly. “Which is why you are going to play, and you aren’t going to think about any of those assholes unless you’re, like, kicking them in the dick, okay? They only win if you give a fuck.”

There is a strange sort of logic to her argument. Edwin has no wish to give these people any more power over him than they already possess, at least in theory.

In practice, it is…difficult.

“Okay?” Crystal repeats.

Edwin takes a bracing breath. No matter how often she reminds him, it refuses to set in. But he cannot allow himself to be consumed by it right now. He has a game to play. “Very well. Good luck with your exams.” 

“Don’t need it. Now go and get ‘em, tiger.”

Charles is already seated when Edwin arrives, having had to skirt around the edges of the frantic crowd. He’d been hoping to get past them unnoticed, but a few people turn to stare as he brushes past, whispering to each other. 

His teeth hurt from how tightly they’re gritted by the time he reaches his seat.

“Morning,” Charles beams up at him. He does not extend his hand to shake, and Edwin frowns. Should he initiate? Or perhaps Charles is disinterested?

“Good morning,” Edwin manages. “I hope you’re well?”

“Aces,” Charles looks pleased to be asked. “What about you?” he gives the crowd a dubious glance. “Didn’t have any trouble getting here, did you?”

“Not particularly,” Edwin says. “I have some experience. Chess tournaments have had audiences since long before you took up the game, you know.”

Charles’ smile falters. “Right. Yeah, I know.”

Edwin had meant for that to be reassuring, but apparently it was not. “It was no real issue,” he adds awkwardly, “is my point.”

Charles doesn’t look especially convinced, but just as Edwin is about to elaborate, the arbiter steps up to the board. In his hand is clutched the sealed envelope from the previous evening.

The rules bind them to silence, so he shuts his mouth as his next move is read aloud and his only remaining knight is brought forward. Depending on what Charles does next, Edwin could have him in mate quite soon. But for that, he shall have to focus.

Charles is a difficult player to predict. More than once, he’s lured Edwin into a trap he didn’t expect. But just as often, Edwin’s burnt precious minutes off the clock looking for a deception that simply isn’t present.

Edwin is wearing him down, though. Slowly but surely—Charles may be the stronger offensive player, but Edwin has always been a persistence hunter. Case in point.

“Check,” he declares.

Charles is studying the board with a furrow between his brows. He does not look especially angry to have his king under his threat, which supposedly isn’t all that unusual. After all, this far into the tournament, they’ll both be walking away with some amount of money. Unfortunately, Edwin wouldn’t know the norm himself, because most professional players look close to murder when he gets them into a corner. 

Finally, Charles reaches for his queenside bishop and slides it diagonally across the board, bringing it back to bear in front of his king. He lingers on the move for a moment longer, delicate fingers still poised on the piece when, unexpectedly, he glances up.

Edwin realizes, far too late, that he’s been staring. Hard enough that Charles can apparently feel it.

But he doesn’t look disgusted or scornful. Instead, the lines on his face smooth over, and he smiles. It’s small and private, but it crinkles his eyes—which are a rich brown, dark and endlessly deep. 

Charles releases his bishop and presses the button on his timer.

The clock switches back to Edwin.

It takes far more effort than it should to drag his gaze back down to the board. And even when he does, he can scarcely focus. Normally he can see his options, in their near-endless variety, playing out as they do in his mind’s eye, visualization that borders on hallucination. He still can, but it is abruptly difficult to keep track of the possibilities the way he usually does.

Finally, he moves a rook further down the board. It seems reasonable in the moment, but within four moves, his error reveals itself. He’s left himself terribly unguarded on the eighth rank, and Charles is certainly not going to let that pass.

Edwin bites down on the inside of his cheek. He can practically hear what the commentators must be saying right now. Jenny Green is probably analyzing the blunder in that brutal, to-the-point way of hers. Thomas King is…probably doing something very similar, just in a weighty, always-insinuating tone.

It really is incredible how much one bad move can cost you, in chess. Still, Edwin would be able to recover—if he had more time to work with. But he’s wasted too much already. Charles has over twice Edwin’s time remaining on the clock. All he has to do is drag his moves out a bit, and that’s it. Game over.

In the end, Charles does not get Edwin into checkmate. 

Edwin examines his position one final time, rubbing his fingers into his temple. It is mostly habitual, as there is no migraine to fend off. Or, more accurately, there is no way to fend off this migraine. It has already set in far too deep, not yet fully arrived but well on its way.

“Charles Rowland,” he finally says. Charles glances up immediately. The arbiter twitches in the distance, likely about to tell him off for speaking, but he waves them off and instead holds out a hand. “The game is yours. I resign.”

The silence that falls over the room then is electric. The shock is a palpable thing, and that at least is a solace. It is nice to know that, after everything, people still expected him to win. That he failed to meet those expectations is something that will no doubt torment him forever, but that is a crisis for later.

Even Charles’ jaw has dropped.

This is becoming embarrassing, so Edwin clears his throat and glances pointedly down at his hand. After a pause, Charles takes it. He shakes it only once, and the motion is shaky. Weak.

Edwin swallows hard. He is in no danger of crying, or at least he hopes, but there is a thickness in his throat that certainly wasn’t there before. “Well played, truly.”

“You too,” says Charles, a little blankly. “Sorry. I just…” he leans across the board a little, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Did I just win?”

It could not possibly be clearer from his tone that he does not mean to rub it in. Edwin grimaces anyway. “You did indeed. Excellent work, Charles.”

No one actually knocks their kings over anymore. It’s antiquated, and to do it to your opponent is rude at best, cruel and mocking at worst. To do it to yourself is excessively humbling and a tad dramatic. But in this moment, it feels right to gently tilt his king down so that it lays flat on the board. Defeated. 

“Holy shit,” Charles stares for a moment before joy breaks across his face, so radiant that Edwin nearly has to look away. Then Charles stands up so abruptly that his chair almost topples. “I won.”

By the time that Charles has escaped the endless parade of camera flashes and finished shaking the hand of perhaps every chess fan in the country, Edwin Paine is gone. There is only an empty chair where he was sitting, and a chess board that’s been rather politely rearranged so the staff can pack it up more easily. 

Damn. Charles wants nothing more than to ask him out for a drink. And, since Edwin is a great deal nicer than he ever could have expected, maybe pick his mind on how he pieced together that absolutely brilliant queen sacrifice yesterday. That alone had nearly cost Charles the match.

It feels a bit pathetic even as he thinks it, like he’s trying to chase down a celebrity to ask them for advice. But Charles isn’t an idiot, despite what his dad thinks.

Edwin Paine nearly had him there. And then he’d blundered. Why?

It takes Charles another half hour to even get out of the room. People keep stopping him, and it feels rude and a bit pompous to just wave them off. He is glad that he told Niko to head back to her room, though. This level of aggressive socialization would drive her absolutely mad. 

Eventually, he does manage to wiggle free. He can already feel his phone buzzing—he’s long since turned off tag notifications on most social media platforms, but he still has to contend with the news apps and his DMs, and he’d swear to god that Instagram pushes the occasional ping through even despite his settings.

The woman at the front desk smiles brightly at him when he rests his elbows on the counter. Her name tag reads Adela. “Hello, Mr. Rowland.”

“Charles,” Charles corrects instinctually. 

“Oh…of course. What can I help you with?” She’s blinking shyly up at him, and it occurs to Charles belatedly that she may not be allowed to address him by his first name. That seems incredibly shitty to him, but glitzy hotels like this, with their crystal chandeliers and millionaire clientele, are unreasonably strict about that sort of thing. 

“Is there any chance that I could get Edwin Paine’s room number?” he asks. When Adela’s eyes widen, he adds: “Not for anything bad! I just didn’t get a chance to offer my…” he nearly says congratulations, except that’s not quite right, is it? “Condolences.”

Her face falls slightly. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could help, but I’m not allowed to give out other guests’ information.”

“Oh,” says Charles. That makes sense, but there’s got to be something he can do. “Could you maybe call up to his room for me, then?”

“I don’t…”

“Please?” Charles clasps his hands together as he leans against the counter, trying to look as unthreatening as possible. “I know it’s a lot of trouble, Adela, but I’d really appreciate it.”

He can see the moment she caves, her shoulders slumping somewhere between the second and third syllables of her name. 

“Alright,” she says. “Yes, I suppose I can do that, as long as I don’t give you his room number. Give me a moment to look him up in the system.”

Charles could nearly pass out, he’s so relieved. “You’re the absolute best, has anyone ever told you that?”

Her cheeks go a little red as she types something quickly on her keyboard. Then she frowns. “Huh.”

“Huh?”

“He phoned down a few minutes ago,” Adela informs him. “Said that he’s checking out early and asked us to phone a taxi for him. My manager must have taken the call, I’m sorry.”

“What, already?”

Adela shrugs. “I can still try calling his room? He may not have left yet.”

“Uh, that’s alright. Thank you.”

There’s no way that Edwin (or anyone, quite frankly, but especially someone who’s so infamously antisocial that even Charles has heard of it) would call a car to the front of the hotel with the lingering crowds. So Charles books it to the hotel’s underground parking instead.

He finds it almost entirely empty, nothing but rows and rows of cars as far as the eye can see. For a moment, he thinks he’s gotten it wrong. Disappointment pits in his stomach, and he’s just turning to leave when he spots the line of a white-clad shoulder in the distance—barely visible, blocked off by a pillar.

Charles brightens, and admittedly he may be moving a little bit fast as he skids around the corner. “Edwin?”

He’s damn lucky that he’s right, because even still, Edwin—who’d apparently been leaning against the stone colonnade and scrolling on his phone—startles so badly that he tips his suitcase over.

Fuck. Charles stops Edwin before he can stoop over. “Let me.”

He sets the bag upright again. “Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to give you a fright, honest.”

“No?” remarks Edwin cooly. He looks much different now than he had at the table. He’d seemed so buttoned-up then, but now his coat is slung over his suitcase and his hair is starting to come out of its styling, revealing the barest hint of curl. He reminds Charles, oddly, of the people you see in airports. Which probably makes sense, since that must be where he’s headed, but he looks less like just anyone from an airport and more like that ever-curious breed of perpetual traveler—a class composed mostly of businessmen and travel writers—who seem to practically live on planes with visits to cities in between. Tired, oddly put together, enigmatic in a way that is decidedly above it all. “Have you come to gloat, then?”

“Woah.” He can see why it might come across that way, and he raises his hands. No ill intent here. “Wouldn’t do that, mate. I came to thank you. For yesterday.”

Edwin apparently isn’t expecting that answer, judging by the way that he glances around like he thinks Charles might be talking to someone else in this very empty car park. “Pardon?”

“Well,” says Charles, awkwardly. “Thing is, I’m friends with a lot of the people on the professional circuit, yeah?” Edwin’s expression starts to close off, so Charles hurries along quickly. “But we’re rivals too. That’s the point.”

“You don’t consider me a rival?”

Edwin sounds nearly offended, and Charles could bury his face in his hands. He’s making a right mess of this. “You’re probably the best I’ve ever played. So, uh, don’t take it personally, but I don’t not consider you a rival. That’s the point. No one else has ever, you know,” he gestures vaguely. It’s not even the advice, really. The entire thing is so confusing that it takes a moment for him to put words to it. “Helped me when it meant they might lose.”

His heart races as Edwin stares him down, looking some strange combination of bewildered and distasteful. Finally, Edwin says, “I assure you. I did not lose because of our conversation.”

“Yeah,” says Charles. “But you still didn’t have to do it, did you?”

Edwin does not reply. Charles tries to give him space to formulate something—he gets the sense that Edwin might be a bit like Niko and may sometimes need a little time to piece his ideas together. Unfortunately, once the quiet stretches out long enough, it becomes very apparent that Edwin does not intend on saying anything at all.

“What’s the Candidates Tournament like?” Charles finally blurts. “I’ve only watched streams.”

“Are you sure,” Edwin says, with some degree of uncertainty, “that you are not here to rub it in?”

Charles winces. Right. Of all the things for him to say.

“I’m not.” Then he pauses. “Shit, wait, no. I’m not here to rub it in. I am sure.”

“Right.”

To call Edwin’s tone unconvinced would be an understatement. “Messed this up, haven’t I?” Charles says finally. “Don’t know what’s gotten into me. Normally I’m aces with people. Can we start over?”

Again Edwin keeps quiet, but this time, at least, he seems like he’s appraising Charles rather than discomfited by him. And eventually, he tilts his head, just deliberately enough that Charles is fairly sure he means: go on, then.

He clears his throat and sticks his hand out. “Charles Rowland, at your service. Pleased to meet you, and thanks for yesterday.”

For a long, painful second, it seems like he’s about to experience a repeat of yesterday’s uncomfortable introduction. But then Edwin takes his hand, not nearly as stiffly as he did when he resigned from their earlier match, and shakes it.

“Edwin Paine.” He clears his throat. Then adds: “Long.”

“...What?”

“The Candidates Tournament. It’s…long. Arduous.”

“Even for you?” Charles asks, surprised. This, from someone who basically breezed through every match he played over the past month? 

Edwin shrugs. “You may find it more enjoyable than I did. The remaining few placements will be announced over the next month or two, and you’ll have nearly half a year to study their styles. It is a rigorous challenge, but certainly not impossible for someone of your talent.”

Charles tries not to blush. He really does. He’s pretty sure from the warmth in his cheeks that he isn’t entirely successful. 

An engine rumbles low in the distance, and headlights flare in his peripheral vision as a car rolls to a slow stop in front of them—halted by a briefly raised hand from Edwin.

“Well,” Edwin says. “It was…nice speaking to you.” 

“You too.” 

Edwin gives him a tight, close-mouthed smile as he opens the door to the backseat. 

“Do you coach?” The question escapes before Charles can stop himself. Edwin pauses, turning a suspicious glance over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you coach?” Charles repeats. In for a penny, in for a pound, he supposes. “And would you coach me? For the Candidates Tournament. And the Championship, if I get that far.”

Edwin opens his mouth. After a moment, he shuts it again. His eyes have gone narrow, clearly suspicious. “Not often,” he says. “Why?”

“Why?” Charles replies, aghast. “Well, for one,” he gestures vaguely, “you’ve actually played the Candidates before. Two, you know Salvatore’s style. Three, you’re Edwin Paine. You’re sort of as good as they get, aren’t you?”

Edwin huffs a quiet laugh.

“I don’t…” A thought occurs to Charles far too late, so horrifying that he nearly wants to turn around and bash his head into the pillar a few times out of shame. “Okay, full disclosure? Probably can’t afford you for the whole season. But maybe we could do a few sessions?” He sets aside some discretionary money from his winnings so he can like, eat and get drinks and stuff. His dad has never complained, probably because he thinks it’s worth it for networking. So if he saves, he could probably pay Edwin for at least a few hours of his time. 

The offer sits in the air between them for what feels like a full minute before Edwin ducks his head into the car.

Charles can’t begrudge him that. Hey, can you coach me? Actually, never mind, I forgot that I don’t keep my money and therefore can’t pay you. 

But Edwin only says a few quiet words to the driver before he turns back to Charles.

“I…” he says. “I could coach you for the rest of the championship cycle. If that is what you’re asking.”

“Right, no, it’s just. I’m sure your hourly fee is, um…” Is there no way to say this that isn’t embarrassing? 

“I don’t charge for coaching,” Edwin cuts him off, in a blunt and unapologetic sort of way. “So fortunately for you, that won’t be an issue.”

Fortunately for you. Said in that crisp, sharp accent—so far beyond posh that it’s practically bleeding money—it really ought to rankle. And, well, it does. A bit. But after four years at St. Hilarion’s, Charles thinks he’s pretty good at identifying wealthy condescension. It looks like this: compliments doled out with rolled eyes, poorly hidden smirks when Charles walked in with a second-hand uniform, offers of charity made with mocking grins—or worse, self-satisfied smiles, a fellow student’s good deed for the day checked off the list.

He sees none of these things on Edwin’s face. A study reveals only those bright eyes, somehow both dissecting and guileless beneath straight lashes, and a downturned mouth, as if Edwin is just as nervous about the answer as Charles was to hear the offer in the first place.

“You’re sure?” Charles finally says.

The look Edwin fixes him with then is decidedly unamused. It seems to say: Yes, you idiot. Don’t make me change my mind.

Or maybe that’s just Charles, projecting.

“Let me give you my phone number,” Charles decides. He’s not going to risk it either way. “You live in London, yeah? Here, I…” he has to rummage around in his bag for far too long to find a scrap of paper—actually a crumpled receipt—and a pen, and then he has to use one of his palms as a makeshift desk. The resulting handwriting is almost illegible. Charles might actually faint from humiliation.

“Thank you,” says Edwin. He takes the paper between two fingers and doesn’t even look at it before he closes the car door between them. The vehicle pulls away, and it occurs to Charles then that if Edwin reads even one number wrong, he’ll probably never hear from him again. Fuck. Why didn’t he just ask if he could put his number right into Edwin’s contacts?

But only a few minutes later, Charles’ phone buzzes in his pocket. The message is from a number that Charles doesn’t recognize, but it’s a London area code. It says: For discussing specifics, does next Wednesday work? 2 PM? 

The message is accompanied by an address in one of London’s nicer neighborhoods. 

Charles’ phone pings again as another message comes through.

Apologies. This is Edwin, by the way.

Charles reacts to that with a heart. Wednesday at 2 works; I’ll be back in London for sure. See you then, coach! He follows this with a saluting emoji and gets no response.

He sends a few more texts too, because he’s never had great impulse control and can’t stop himself. Hope you have a safe flight!

Then: Too bad you aren’t in Prague longer. Would’ve loved to grab a drink.

He cuts himself off after that, because he’s not trying to be overbearing or, God forbid, creepy. But he is fairly certain that he’s going to be thinking about Edwin Paine for the rest of the night.

One of the best players in the world, and he just agreed to be Charles’ coach. Holy shit.

It’s not like Charles didn’t know that Edwin had money; that much is clear just from looking at him. Still, he has to take a moment to scrape his jaw off the ground when he gets to the address provided—a sixth-floor flat in Blackheath in a building that—judging by the balconies—allocates a very generous amount of square footage to each unit.

Their corner flat is easy to find, though he’s so exhausted from running up the stairs that he passes it and has to double back anyway. He should probably take a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow, but he really doesn’t have the time to spare.

The door swings open within seconds of him actually knocking. A black girl in a corduroy jacket, at least a head shorter than him but with a determined set to her jaw that makes her look taller, stands in the doorway. The first thought that crosses Charles’ mind is: shit, she’s pretty. 

The second is that Edwin was having him on after all.

“Shit,” says Charles, face already heating up. “Sorry, I—”

“You’re here for Edwin, right?” the girl interrupts. She speaks in an American accent and is looking him up and down with a critical eye, which is enough to make Charles straighten his back and forcibly even out his breathing.

“Uh,” says Charles. “Yeah. You know him?”

The girl scoffs. It’s a little unkind, but in a way that seems more unintentional than targeted.  “Yeah. He’s my roommate. Come in.”

“Oh,” says Charles. For some reason, it never occurred to him that Edwin was the sort to share a flat with someone. Everything about Edwin’s image in the chess community is reclusive and distant, edged with a self-superiority that seems earned in Charles’ book but apparently makes most people furious. In retrospect, that he imagined Edwin as some secluded prodigy who talks to no one, lives alone, and practices chess by a window all day is…a bit silly. But it’s just that it seemed so plausible, up until about thirty seconds ago. “Are you his girlfriend?”

She laughs, the sound more shocked than genuinely amused, and ushers him into the foyer.

“Definitely not,” she replies emphatically, as Charles toes off his trainers on their doormat, a fraying brown rug that declares, in bold letters: NO SHOES BEYOND THIS POINT. “I’m Crystal, by the way.”

“Shit.” Didn’t even introduce himself properly. His mum would pinch his arm if she’d been here to see that. “Sorry. I’m Charles.” 

“Trust me, I know.”

Charles nearly asks what that is supposed to mean, but he stops himself just in time. Frankly, he doesn’t want to know exactly how bad an impression he must have left.

“Didn’t know he had a flatmate,” Charles says instead. “I won’t be too much trouble.”

“God,” Crystal sidesteps his shoes, gesturing for him to follow. “No. You’re doing me a favor. If he’s talking about chess with you, then he’s not talking about it with me. Wins all around.”

She leads him into a spacious lounge, and Charles means spacious. It has an adjoining kitchen with marble counters, and the entire right wall is a sliding glass door that leads out to a wide balcony. With all its white walls and shining floors, it is nice in a way that should probably feel sterile and uncomfortable. And it does, a bit, but it’s surprisingly homey as well. There is a lamp with a bright purple shade in one corner, and a half-knitted blanket draped over the back of a velvet loveseat. Up on a stand is a whiteboard that says CRYSTAL on one half and EDWIN on the other, with crosshatches beneath each of their names. They’re roughly even, though Crystal has a few more. By the window is a small desk with two cushioned chairs, and a chess set with a heavy board and stone pieces. On the balcony, the garden boxes are practically overflowing—flowers, herbs, more greenery than Charles can rightly parse, but between the marigolds and the carnations is a grainy, six-foot, black-and-white cardboard cutout of a man in a neatly pressed suit with round glasses.

He finds Edwin on the couch, socked feet propped up on a glass coffee table, crossed at the ankles beside a handful of origami cranes. No suit jacket, but again in a dress shirt, though the top few buttons are undone.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Charles says, still a little breathless. “I never do this, I’m sorry.”

Edwin looks up, the line of his jaw deadly sharp where it is backlit by the window. “I don’t believe it qualifies as being late when you reschedule,” he offers, which is unbelievably generous, because Charles is pretty sure it does count, actually, when you reschedule thirty minutes beforehand because he is—to quote his text precisely—runnign late im so fucking sorry! is two hours from now okay?

Still, that Edwin is willing to forgive it is better than Charles expected, and better than he likely deserves, given his absolute thoughtlessness.

“Well I don’t usually reschedule at the last minute either,” Charles offers. “My dad wanted to talk about finances and it…couldn’t wait. He worries.”

“Oh,” Crystal moves past him so she can stand directly behind Edwin, bracing one hand on the back of the couch. “Right, you landed that brand deal with Adidas last week. I heard about that.”

Her words are pointed. Charles tries to hide his wince behind a sheepish laugh, but he isn’t entirely certain if he’s succeeded. “Yep, he wanted to go over…” every last number, suspicious of each penny that was moving into his own account, “allocations.”

“Huh,” says Crystal. “Hey, what does a company like Adidas want with chess players, anyway?”

Charles has no fucking idea. Niko had tried to explain it to him—her company’s outreach had landed him the gig to begin with, and good lord, he’d had trouble explaining to his dad that twenty-five percent of deal went directly into the agency’s pockets as part of their payment plan, even though he’d been the one who signed the contract to begin with. But those briefings are long and complicated, and Charles rarely recalls a word afterward.

“Uh, I think Adidas is German. And chess is huge there, I guess,” Charles manages, struggling through the fragments of her explanation that he actually does remember. “And it’s an image thing. They want their customers to feel clever? Or something like that. And I run a lot, so…” he shrugs. That’s about all he’s got. 

“Pardon,” says Edwin, saving Charles from having to concoct any further justification. “What is Adidas?”

Charles blinks, thrown off, but then—maybe he shouldn’t be. Edwin doesn’t seem especially sporty, and rich kids probably don’t buy Adidas. Are there Dior trainers? 

“They’re shoes,” he offers, at the exact same time as Crystal says, in an absolutely scandalized voice, “Fuck you, you know what Adidas are.”

“Well,” says Edwin primly, gesturing at Charles. “I do now.”

“Are you for fucking serious?”

“Deadly.”

“Holy shit,” says Crystal, eyes wide. She looks up at Charles, for the first time without suspicion. Now her gaze is imploring. “Oh my god. Listen, Charles. He’s like a baby bird. A fucked up one, maybe. Like a shrike. He knows what he’s doing with some things. And sometimes he doesn’t know about Adidas. Be gentle with him, he knows not what pop culture is. Etcetera.”

“I am to be his chess coach, not his marketing manager,” says Edwin with a huff. “I don’t need to know about shoes.” 

He looks to Charles then, as if for confirmation. 

“Yup,” says Charles, because he’s never left a mate hanging before and isn’t about to start now. “Honestly, you’re not missing much. They’re fine.”

Edwin practically preens. “You see, Crystal?”

Crystal’s gaze has gone back to being evaluative as she looks Charles over. “Yeah, fine,” she says. “You win. Jesus.”

“Another one for the board,” says Edwin, gesturing over to the whiteboard. Crystal rolls her eyes but goes and adds a tally to Edwin’s side. “Now, Charles. I have drafted a basic training plan. Do you have any other obligations that you’ll be attending to over the year and two months?”

“Uh,” says Charles, head spinning from how quickly they’ve jumped topics. “Family stuff, sometimes. It never happens on any sort of regular schedule, sorry,” he winces. That’s an understatement, but Edwin doesn’t need to know that. “But nothing else. Chess is sort of a full-time thing.”

“Good,” Edwin nods with approval. “It should be, if you have any serious aspirations for the championship. If it is amenable to you, I would like to go over the training regimen I have outlined. Then I’d like us to play a match. I took notes on some of your previous games, but I was hoping to test how you respond to a few different techniques—”

“I hate to do this to you dude,” Crystal cuts in. “But I have a date in two hours, remember?”

Edwin’s mouth parts. “Crystal,” he says. “I am terribly sorry. I forgot.”

“Well you should be sorry,” she waves him off. “But maybe I didn’t remind you for a reason.”

Charles’ face is warm. “We don’t have to,” he says. He is not entirely sure why Crystal’s date is relevant. Maybe she doesn’t want some random guy around while she’s getting ready? Or maybe she’s trying to give Edwin an out. But Charles can take a hint. “I can go.”

“No,” say Crystal and Edwin, with shocking speed and in almost perfect harmony.

Edwin gives Crystal a suspicious, sidelong look, apparently as taken aback by her refusal as Charles is. “We can at least go through the schedule. There’s still some time to spare.”

“Actually,” says Crystal. She is beaming, and when she smiles this fully, it reaches her eyes, which are so much deeper and prettier in this light. “I was thinking you could come.”

Charles’ brain shorts out, just for a moment. “On your date?” he asks in a strangled tone. “With you?”

“No, with Edwin,” says Crystal, and when Edwin sputters, she turns to look at him skeptically. “There’s nothing that says that you have to be alone to be my exit plan.” To Charles, she adds, “I don’t do first dates solo. Especially with guys. No offense.”

“None taken,” Charles feels a bit like he’s just been hit by a car and is waking up twenty feet from the street crossing after being struck, with no memory of the journey. “It’s fine, really. I don’t want to impose.”

“You won’t. Unless I want you to—that’s the point. And you can just make Edwin do it,” Crystal says. “Come on. We’ll pack the foldable. It’s less suspicious than Edwin sitting there pretending like he’s not keeping an eye out, anyway.

Edwin looks utterly bewildered, but aside from that, there’s no hint on his face as to whether Charles’ presence would be unwelcome.

But when he notices Charles’ searching gaze, he clears his throat and says, “It is not ideal. But needs must, I suppose. I am open to it, if you are amenable.”

“I…yeah,” Charles manages. “Don’t have anything else planned, do I?”

“That’s the spirit,” Crystal claps her hands together decisively. “You two talk shop. I’m gonna get dressed.” 

“I am sorry,” Charles says again, as soon as she’s out of earshot. “I don’t mean to get in the way. I can come up with an excuse.”

Edwin holds up a hand, halting Charles’ apology. “If you’re quite serious about this, we will be spending a lot of time with each other.”

The words are wry with amusement but not entirely without challenge either. There’s an intensity to it, a question Charles can’t possibly figure out. Edwin reaches under the table and pulls a black binder from the shelf there. It’s got to be at least a hundred pages long, and judging by the thud it makes when he tosses it on to the table, it’s fucking heavy. 

“I am,” says Charles. “Serious about it.”

That answer doesn’t seem to surprise Edwin in the least. His expression softens into something that Charles wouldn’t quite call a smile—but it’s a close thing.

“Excellent,” Edwin replies. “Let’s get started.”

Crystal’s date is a lanky boy with sun-kissed skin, a smattering of freckles across his nose, and a sheer curtain of dirty blond waves that fall past his shoulder on one side and are cropped nearly down to his ear on the other. He’s attractive in the tousled, laidback way of Californian surfers, though even from here Edwin can tell that his accent is all Scouse. 

He seems perfectly agreeable. If he’s interested in keeping it casual, he and Crystal might manage to pull something off. If not, Edwin is already betting that there will be no second date.

“Right,” says Charles, back from the loo more quickly than Edwin expected. He glances briefly over his shoulder to eye Crystal’s dinner companion, then returns his gaze to Edwin, lowering his voice and leaning close so he can still be heard. “So, how are the vibes? Rescue mission is ready to launch, just say when.”

The words are delivered with a wry grin, but there is a certain weight to them that takes Edwin by surprise. He gets the impression, briefly, that if he said yes, Charles would be on his feet in a second, marching over there like some sort of gallant, misguided knight.

“Standard vibes,” Edwin replies. “We can hold on rescue efforts until further notice.” Crystal will text him if she needs an out. Or, if things are really bad, stand up and say, far too loudly: Edwin! Crazy running into you here. Wow, it’s been years! 

He already has the board laid out, white on his side and black on Charles’. The foldable is a thin wooden set that’s meant to be easily carried, though Edwin long-ago customized it with weighted pieces rather than plastic ones. It’s not especially portable as a result, but it’s much better for Edwin’s grip, variable as it is.

“Should we order?” 

“If you like,” says Edwin. “I’ll pay; I’m aware you didn’t plan on going out tonight.”

This is Crystal’s favorite first-date spot, and they come here often enough that the staff knows them by name. As long as there are tables available, Edwin buying an entree to go and ordering some drinks is all they ask him to do if he’s going to camp out. They’ve even stopped giving him looks when he sets his board up on the table.

Charles’ shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly. “Nah, mate. Took your most recent paycheck, didn’t I?”

Edwin bites the inside of his lip at the reminder. “You did not. Rather by definition, in fact. That prize goes to the winner of the Cup, and that winner just so happened to be you. And second place made off well enough, if it soothes your conscience.”

He has a handful of bills to cover, including some debts from his time abroad, but nothing that should encumber him from purchasing dinner. Especially because, thanks to Crystal, he does not have to worry about matters such as rent.

“Right,” says Charles, in the manner of someone who is not entirely convinced. However, he turns his attention to the chess board. Not a piece is out of starting position, but Edwin can see it happening—the cogs turning, the wheels spinning, searching for traction. “How do we want to—”

Edwin moves his king’s pawn to e4. 

“Like so,” he replies. As he waits, he flips open his notebook and picks up a pen with his free hand.  “Your move. Quickly, if you can, as we obviously cannot adjourn on this particular occasion.”

They play through the opening in well-worn lines. Charles uses the Caro-Kann, which is surprising. He has only used that defense three times across all his recorded games, always against players who were much higher ranked. 

But perhaps Edwin should not be entirely surprised. The king may be the centerpiece of the game, but Charles is especially precious with it. Edwin has that in his notes at least three times over.

If Charles stifles his king with Alessi, he’ll lose.

Still, the point of this test is to take Charles out of his comfort zone. Him using the Caro-Kann is a sign that Edwin is on the right track, so with his third move, he transitions into the fantasy variation. It is not his own favored reply to the Caro-Kann—he has in fact never used it in a competitive game. But judging by the way that Charles leans back in his seat, it was the exact right thing to do. Charles does not know the textbook response.

It takes him longer to act this time, but his reply, as innocuous as a single pawn step forward, is logically sound. 

And now that they are in uncharted territory, Edwin can start pushing his offensive line.

Their waitress, Madeleine, drops off Edwin’s tea and takes Charles’ order. She is a French transplant, with red curls perpetually bound in a messy knot and a dry, acerbic sense of humor that endeared her to Edwin from their first meeting.

“Good lord,” she says with a groan, when she looks more closely at the board. With the menu, she delivers a stern tap to the back of Charles’ shoulder. “Don’t let this one trick you. He’s vicious.”

“And he is the current World Cup holder,” Edwin informs her, as she stalks away in heels that are, frankly, perilously high for a work environment. She only flips him off over one shoulder and retreats into the kitchen.

When Edwin looks back at the table, Charles’ expression is somewhere between amusement and mild confusion. He has brought his knight into play.

That sort of stare ought to bother Edwin immensely. The deeper emotion behind either of those looks is, in his experience, always a variation on intense dislike. Either his competitors are delighted to have found some sort of perceived weakness, or bewildered that he is somehow even more offensive to their tastes than they imagined.

But Charles’ smile does not fade when Edwin catches his eye, the way that the jeering, snide ones so often do. And under the orange lights above, his gaze is warm.

“Alright,” Charles says. “Can I ask you a question?”

“It is poor manners,” Edwin replies, “to distract your opponent with conversation during a match. And disqualifying.”

It is not a no. And Charles, to his credit, hears the absence. “No arbiter here, is there?” 

But he does wait. Edwin, after a few more seconds of consideration, adjusts his bishop’s position, threatening both a knight and a poorly guarded pawn. It’s a move with some amount of risk, but he wants to know which Charles will sacrifice. The knight is the greater material loss. But the pawn gives Edwin a clearer shot at the king—which also means that Charles can’t simply move it out from the line of attack. He will have to pull his second knight away from its center position to guard that weak spot.

“I want to know why you agreed to coach me,” Charles continues, once Edwin is done. “It’s just driving me mad. I can’t pay you. I don’t know you. So…” he gestures vaguely. “I dunno. Why?”

Why? 

Edwin isn’t entirely sure of the answer. Maybe it is because of the phone call Crystal made as soon as he got back to his room after their match, the tight and clipped voice she’d used when she said she’d bought him a plane ticket. I don’t think you should be alone right now.

He is far less bothered by the loss than he ever thought he would be, though the blunder that cost him the match will no doubt haunt him until he is cold and dead in his grave. But Crystal is right. He does better when he is not alone. He does his best when he has something to focus on. 

And despite all the doctor’s appointments and medication and group meetings, nothing did more for his recovery than coaching Becky Aspen.

He would say as much, but that is the sort of honest explanation that leads to questions with answers no one needs to hear, much less the player who preemptively ended Edwin’s most recent run for the championship.

“If I can’t win, seeing Alessi lose will have to suffice.” It’s not the entire truth, but it is true. And besides, if someone else is to beat Alessi, Edwin will throw his lot behind the only candidate who has actually been half-pleasant to him, as disorienting as it is. 

“Oh.” Charles says. “Makes sense.”

He brings back his second knight to guard that weak pawn, leaving its sibling on the other side free for the taking. Interesting. Edwin writes that down immediately, then captures the unprotected and unmoved knight. 

“Playing aggressive tonight, aren’t you?” Charles notes.

Edwin hides his smile by resting his chin on his palm. “And you’re playing defensively.” Charles moves a rook forward, applying pressure to his admittedly weak fifth rank.

They discuss lighter topics after that. Music, television. The sorts of things Edwin is a few years behind on aside from what Crystal likes, because he generally prefers to occupy his time with studying games—or playing them. It is an admission that makes Charles grin good-naturedly and say: Well, we’ll have to fix that, mate. Club’s probably not your scene, is it? I know this cozy bar on Bermondsey Street, you’d probably love it. 

Charles’ food arrives after what Edwin knows to be a deliberate delay. There is nothing more distracting than being interrupted in the middle of the game.

“Shit,” says Charles, when they set a plate of spaghetti beside his half of the board. “Didn’t think this through, did I?”

“It’s quite alright,” Edwin replies. “I had a forced mate in nine, regardless.”

Charles immediately turns his attention back to the board. “What?” His eyes flicker back and forth as he tracks the potential lines of attack. “You can calculate it that far out?”

“Sometimes,” says Edwin. “Have you found it yet?”

After a minute of attempted study, Charles shakes his head. “Maybe if I had an hour. Show me.”

Edwin only has to play through three more of the moves before Charles spots it. He might be able to defend his king for a few tempos longer, and he could retreat for the rest. But on the ninth, there will be no more saving his position.

“Fuck me.” Charles is looking down at his king with almost comedic dismay. “How do you do that? I never would have spotted that in a million years.”

To that, Edwin can only shrug. “It is hardly a necessary skill. Only a handy one.” He pauses, then adds: “Enjoy your spaghetti.”

He takes notes on their game while Charles eats. When they’re both done, it is right back to the board. This time, Charles opts for a fully aggressive opening—a hallmark of almost all his professional games, and the only time he’s done so against Edwin thus far. This is his element, and it shows. 

But there are still weaknesses. It helps, quite honestly, that Edwin is not playing to win. He is playing to figure out exactly what sorts of challenges Charles will trip over, and the list that’s forming is an interesting one. There are only a couple issues that Edwin would personally classify as significant; the others are perhaps only a consequence of Charles’ more intuitive playstyle, a consistent sort of faltering when he encounters a move that defies his natural vision, when no instinctual reply comes to mind or when he abruptly is confronted with the possibility that his instincts may be leading him wrong. 

That, in particular, could be fatal when dealing with Alessi. But it is not insurmountable.

They’re just transitioning into the midgame of their third match when Crystal stands up from her table, a clear half-beat before her date does. She waves him goodbye, polite in a way that is decidedly bored.

“We need drinks,” she says, dragging a chair over to their table before the door has even finished closing behind the poor fellow. “Or I do.”

The thing about Crystal is that she can drink men three times her size under the table. And Edwin may be tall, but he is not that tall, and he also has a naturally competitive spirit that Crystal truly excels at provoking. So somewhere between the alcohol and the conversation, Edwin forgets to take notes on the rest of the match, not that he can feel too poorly about it. He is not playing his best. Nor is Charles, judging by the fact that he sacs his queen on accident. 

Edwin also has a sneaking suspicion that Crystal may be moving the pieces around when he’s not looking, though he’s too distracted to tell for sure.

They’re just about done when a small voice says, “Hi. Sorry to interrupt?” 

It belongs to a preteen girl with braces, big square glasses, and fine black hair held back by a pink headband. She is looking at Charles with starry-eyed determination, hugging her arms around her stomach like she’s forcing herself to be here but still somehow excited about it.

“Are you from TikTok?” she asks, with a carefulness that makes Edwin think she knows exactly who she’s talking to but was raised with enough manners to offer Charles an out, if he wants it. “With the chess?”

Edwin can admit that he’s surprised by how quickly Charles seems to sober himself up. 

“Don’t know about TikTok,” he says. “But I play chess, yeah.”

“Wow,” says the girl, so dreamily that Crystal looks away, presumably to hide her giggling. “Can I have a picture?”

“Absolutely. Is your mum around?”

“Yes! She loves you too!” The nervousness has started to fade from the girl’s expression. “Can you come say hi?” She points over to a cozy corner booth, where a middle-aged Chinese woman is pretending to mind her own business with quite a bit of dedication, betrayed only by the occasional sidelong glance over at their table.

“Sure,” says Charles. He gives Edwin and Crystal a brief smile. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.” 

The second he’s out of earshot, Crystal turns back around and says, “Damn. I hate to see him leave, but I love to watch him go. Or whatever the saying is.”

Edwin does not follow her gaze, instead turning his attention to more worthwhile pursuits, like packing up the foldable. “Your date didn’t go well, I take it?”

“It went fine.” Crystal says it went fine the way that most people might say the game was a draw—with the knowledge that such an outcome should technically be sufficient, but with a hunger for something more, even so. 

“When I rescheduled for the evening, you didn’t mention anything because…”

“I wanted to meet him,” Crystal replies. “And if I could inconvenience him a little? Great. That’s when people show you what they’re really like.”

“I know,” says Edwin dryly, though he can’t help but be profoundly touched. What had her plan been, should Charles have replied poorly to the change in venue? No doubt to drive him from their flat with nothing but her bare fists. Luckily, that has not proven necessary.

He feels unkind now, for worrying that it might, but he shakes that guilt off as best he can. Plenty of boys seem harmless who aren’t. Charles still might prove like the rest, the sort of fellow that Edwin retreated into chess to escape. And even in chess, he is not especially popular. 

An abundance of caution and a healthy amount of distance is always wise. 

“I won’t hook up with him,” Crystal decides finally. “So don’t say I never did anything for you.”

“You never did anything for me.” Edwin has no idea what she means, but he simply can’t have Crystal telling him what to do. The balance of power in their flat will never recover. “If that’s what you want, my opinion doesn’t have to factor into it.”

“God,” she says. “Wow. We got a feminist icon, over here. But nah. Don’t worry about it.”

Edwin waits for her to elaborate on what she means by that, exactly, but she’s moved on to polishing off his half-empty glass of champagne.

“Sorry ‘bout that.” Slender fingers come into view, quickly collecting the few final pieces that Edwin hadn’t gotten to yet. Charles looks only mildly harried and extremely abashed. “Glad you waited.”

“Well, we didn’t have much other choice,” Edwin remarks dryly. “I am waiting on the check.”

“Nah, mate,” Charles’ answering grin is utterly self-satisfied. “Already handled, you’re good.”

Crystal laughs, a brief, surprisingly loud sound that is hardly short of a cackle.

“I said—” Edwin begins, his cheeks warming.

“I know you did.” With all the pieces away, Charles shuts the foldable but makes no effort to hand it over, instead tucking it under his arm and taking a step back from the table, presumably making room for Edwin and Crystal to squeeze free. “You teach me chess, I cover the food. Seems only fair, don’t it?”

“Oh, good,” Crystal says, saving Edwin from having to think of any sort of reply. “This one’s terrible at eating. Keep him fed for me, and I’ll water him once every three days.”

Charles nods. “Seems reasonable.”

Good lord. In his defense, he had only two encounters’ worth of interactions before tonight, and Crystal had seemed entirely predisposed to hate him. But allowing the two of them to meet may just be the biggest mistake Edwin’s ever made.

“Let’s get out of here, shall we?” He pulls a few notes from his wallet and pins them down with the now-empty champagne flute. When he gets to his feet, he totters—his alcohol tolerance isn’t bad, but he has a poor sense of equilibrium even when he’s sober.

It disorients him only further when Charles puts a bracing hand on his shoulder. 

“Alright there?” he asks.

Edwin ducks out from beneath the touch, well and grounded once more. “Yes, fine, thank you.”

His tone is perhaps not as polite as it ought to be, but if Charles notices, he makes no comment. He just walks them back to their flat and sets the foldable down on the coffee table, careful not to crush any of Crystal’s paper cranes. 

“It’s late,” says Edwin, when he catches sight of the clock. “Let me call you an Uber.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Charles replies. “I like the Tube. Gives me time to think. Oh! Before I forget.” 

And with all the flair of a children’s magician, he produces Edwin’s handkerchief from his pocket. 

It has been washed. Not correctly, but it has been washed, and with some care as well. 

Charles departs shortly thereafter, and Edwin spends far too long worrying at the fabric as he thinks. It is true, now that he thinks about it, that Charles had said he’d give it back. Yet still, Edwin is surprised. By that, and perhaps by nothing more than the fact that he likes Charles Rowland, very much so.

It is going to be a long year.