Work Text:
Three weeks, touching but not touching.
He does try not to touch her too much.
Okay, well. He was trying not to touch her too much. Three weeks of keeping a chessboard between them, separated by a world of sixty-four squares. Every day. They don’t sit next to each other, they sit across. The way his chairs are arranged, the lack of Beth’s expected couch, it’s not that hard. The one time he looked over her shoulder, to watch her play out Fine’s mistake, that might have been too close.
He touched her then, too pleased with another hole in Fine’s analysis, caught up in her laugh. The one that stopped as soon as he touched her, his hand laying on her back, moving to squeeze her shoulder.
He likes watching her expressions; her little scoffs, when he shows her some boring move; her slow blinks, in lieu of rolling her eyes. She’s such a natural player, but then, so’s he. You look for people’s tells, and she doesn’t seem to care for hiding them. That’s thinking, the kind of thing you might consider, if you read the footnotes. And that’s the thing, she doesn’t consider. Doesn’t have to.
She stills, sometimes, when he smiles at her.
She looked back at him, while she was talking to Cleo, and he looked back, because he could feel it from across the room.
And she froze, when he did touch her. His skin on hers, and she looks up at him with big, widened eyes. Not afraid, but surprised; lips parted, but barely breathing; eyes flickering down, then up.
And now his head is resting on her back. The heave of her breath now glows warmth across Benny’s cheek and jaw.
“That’s what it’s supposed to feel like.” Says Beth, finishes with a trace of a laugh, like it’s a revelation.
What does that mean? He breathes, while he thinks. He might be tempted to make some comment back, almost works his way up to one, before she nudges at him with her shoulder blade.
“Hello?”
“You should play the Sicillian.”
She pauses. “What?”
“In your game with Borgov,” he repeats. “You should play the Sicillian.”
“Why?” He can imagine her slow blink. “It’s what he’s so good at.” She shifts beneath him, moves him an inch.
Sex always cleans out everything in his head, how… How does he explain this? Everything’s sort of empty, all he’s got is the heat off her skin, the brush of her bare legs tangled with his under the sheets. The last move sends a warm tingle through his otherwise relaxed body. But still, “It’s also what you’re most comfortable with.” Benny’s voice sounds ragged, but he tries to sound like he’s saying something worthwhile, like there’s a meaning to the words. Is there?
“You should always play your line, never his.” He tells her, adds, focusing for a moment on the back of her head, “You play what’s best for you.”
He’s supposed to be helping her, and this is how to explain it; That’s what it’s supposed to feel like.
Beth lifts her head, answers. “Thank you.” Her hair brushes against his, loose over his forehead. “Anything else?”
“One more thing. They never say ‘Check’ at the big tournaments.” Might as well tell her. She doesn’t need the disadvantage of something so simple. It’s not a rule, except to them. The way he described chess in the USSR to her, before she beat him, he didn’t tell it right. It’s more regal, and less.
He breathes, less shallow. Talking about chess slows his heart beating, brings him back to the sort of calm he uses to manage his matches, balance the analysis of one with the opening of another, and, occasionally, make decisions that lead to things like pretty girls in his bed.
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah, very.” He agrees. “They never lay their kings down, either.” That is odd, really. It seems like the kind of symbolism the Soviets would be all over. And the French. Maybe anyone who isn’t British. He always liked the idea of it. She told him about a kid, in Mexico City, who resigned that way, just for her. The old-fashioned way. They all should.
They all will.
“I meant, Are you serious, this is what you’re thinking about, right now?”
He- What?
Beth shoves him off, suddenly, away from the smooth heat of her back, draws away, pulls at the covers. Bundles herself back up, separated again. "Good night, Benny.”
He can’t think. Not now, not about anything that isn’t chess. His head is too clear, he doesn’t have a single thought that isn’t about laying down kings or knights or trying to figure out what just happened. This is why, this is exactly why he told her to forget about sex in the first place. Because he’s trying to teach her to play the game, not to live the life. Because he’s helping her with understanding, not hiding. It’s why he doesn’t address the way she telegraphs, with her big eyes and full lips. Workman’s chess isn’t about being absorbed, it’s about working through, understanding the game.
And he told her that, because all he’s got now is chess. Anything else, and all the pieces have stalled, trapped. How-
“Good night.”