Work Text:
Keymer didn’t notice how cute his opponent is until he stayed up late to watch the replay of his trainwreck of a game.
The way Sindarov mirrored his fidgeting fingers that he brought up to his lips. The way he pursed his lips and stoned his expression, eyes fixed onto the screen like a falcon honing in on its prey.
Well, his opponent was not exactly cute in a sweet way, but Keymer cannot help looking away.
And despite being equipped with a German’s impeccable work ethic, he unfortunately slipped into the dark eyes of Sindarov, pinned against the intensity of the Uzbek’s calm and steady gaze as his own knight gets pinned under layers of impossible pressure.
“And when your opponent starts playing like this, you can’t help but wonder, what did you do wrong.” Hansen’s voice rises above the mess of Keymer’s brain chatter.
“Yeah.” Slumped in the leather-back office chair in his hotel room, the stars that are city lights peaking through the blinds, Keymer listens to his own breathy whisper break the rigid silence. “What did you do wrong, Vincent. What happened?”
This was not the first time he got beaten clean and raw, but this is the first time he felt something other than regret and the instinctive urge to study and drill in the mistake.
Come to think of it, this is just like Las Vegas all over again.
It was a preliminary game, and towards the thirtieth move Keymer is frozen, without a move. He had to watch Sindarov clear the path to queen the pawns while he, Vincent, has his hands tied behind his back, metaphorically of-course.
But a dark thought sprang into his head as he sips on this feeling of powerlessness like fine wine.
Looking back at the game replay, Keymer imagines the computer screens gone and Sindarov’s penetrating gaze landing directly on him.
He feels his groin muscles tense to the point of pain but doesn’t stop thinking.
Keymer imagines his counterpart’s smaller but powerful frame thrusting him into a subordinate position with one calculated trade after another.
And when Keymer is finally at his mercy, the executioner thinks for half a minute and chooses the cleanest blade to finish him off.
The brilliant move knight to f6, setting up a fork to capture the queen, and there goes Keymer’s final line of defense.
He shakes his head but still plays out the final moves of futile checks as the evaluation bar soars against him.
“We might get a resignation any time now.” The commentary rings like a bell in Keymer’s ears. And when the dust settles, he is cornered on the right side of the board, intact queen and rook left useless, as Sindarov soars in on d1 with checkmate, a full minute advantage on the clock, and two connected passed pawns on the other side of the board.
After this game, Keymer suffered another defeat against Tang, booking his ticket back home.
The crushing feeling of disappointment gnaws at the inside of his stomach.
The only thought he can preoccupy himself with right now, is the image of the Uzbek falcon inserting its talons into his flesh with surgical precision to rip him apart.
And strangely, Keymer felt so attached to the loss against Sindarov and the intoxicating feeling after it.
He should be even more alarmed at his next thought as he ponders on whether to knock on Sindarov’s door in the middle of the night.
After weighing his choices and chances, Keymer decides to commit to the second worse course of action: Texting Sindarov in the middle of the night.
Normally Keymer would consider the fact that any sane person would not reply to a rival’s message at such a sketchy time. Especially since Sindarov had qualified for the playoffs tomorrow. And not even considering that they are not on a first name basis.
But obviously Keymer’s brain is not thinking any of this as he manages to pull up Sindarov’s Instagram private chat by sheer chance, after a tirade of back buttons as he seldom visits the app.
: Hello, this is Vincent Keymer.
He stares at the darkening screen, not sure what he’s waiting for. Then suddenly, lo and behold, a prompt appears at the bottom of the screen, and before Keymer can figure out what it means, a reply popped up.
: Yeah I know, your username has your full name along with your birth year.
Keymer scrunches his brows in confusion as another text bubble appears.
: You good? Wanna call?
The crease in Keymer’s forehead grows more taunt by the second. He has to make sure that he is texting the right contact.
But before he can do that, the call comes in, and he feels like the only move is to accept.
So he does, and the expressionless face of his opponent appears on screen.
“Hello Vincent. I thought you have a manager to look after you.” Sindarov squints his eyes ever so slightly. His face is slightly flushed, but it might as well be light bouncing off somewhere. “I mean to look after your account.”
“Uh…yeah, I don’t use Instagram a lot.” Keymer cringed at his own reply. “Today the game with you was good.”
“I mean it’s just good luck.” Sindarov blinked sympathetically, unconsciously resting his fingers lightly on his lips. “Don’t be so upset.”
“No, I am not.” Keymer promises carefully. “I am just very amazed. You are very decisive in playing and I have lots to learn from you.”
“Thank you.” Now it’s Sindarov’s turn to be at a lost for words. For a brief moment he left the frame and returned looking as bashful as ever. “We should play together after this thing is over.”
“Yeah, yeah I would love to.” Keymer catches sight of his own flushed cheeks in the phone and rushes to cover half his face with the slippery palm of his right hand in hopes of cooling down a bit. “Yeah, uhh good luck tomorrow. Rest well.”
“Thanks.” Sindarov gazes directly into the camera and smiles. Keymer wonders how a person can be so stolid and expressive at the same time. “Good night.”
“Good night.” Keymer whispers and doubts if Sindarov even heard him. But the sweet look his newfound friend gave him before they hanged up spoke otherwise.
And for the first time, Keymer fell asleep smiling after a not so great tournament.