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Freddie is doing better now. He really is, and he has been for a while. He and Anatoly have been healthy, all the communication and honesty nonsense that neither of them quite figured out when it came to Florence. Turns out everyone in their little trio was the problem, but Freddie is grateful that it brought him Anatoly. It’s been a long road, but he enjoys having found a life that doesn’t hurt. One that he is willing to let continue exactly as it is, should fate choose.
Not that life is an idyllic happy ever after. Most days, Freddie’s head is screaming, and his bones ache. The lights and sounds of the world are so bright that he withers up into a shell. Meanwhile, Anatoly sometimes just drifts away into memories or an exhaustion he doesn't know how to describe, something set deep in his bones.
They know each other, though. They recognize the patterns. On mornings when Anatoly gets that look in his eyes, sometimes Freddie will simply roll over and rest on top of him. Bring him back down to earth, mentally and physically. Meanwhile, if Freddie has curled up somewhere, Anatoly turns the lights down and plays classical music, letting him adjust to a more calming environment before coaxing him out with words.
They understand each other. If one of them can't pull their weight, the other one picks up the slack. If they’re both out of it, the dishes can sit unwashed for a while. They have chess money, and they will order takeaway with it if that is what they need, as Anatoly puts it.
So things aren't perfect, but they are far beyond tolerable. That's why Freddie is surprised when they are lazing around, Anatoly with a crossword and Freddie with his latest knitting project, and his lover looks up and says, “Freddie, did you ever try to kill yourself?”
He swallows. “What?”
Anatoly is staring at him, like he's found a word in a book that he doesn't understand. “Did you?”
“Yeah. I did.” He juts out his chin defensively. “Did you?”
“Yes,” Anatoly replies bluntly, setting down his pen and book.
“Oh.” Freddie quietly sets aside his knitting. “I'm sorry.” He knew, actually. He's seen the scars. But it hurts to hear, anyway.
Anatoly presses his hands flat on his thighs, something that Freddie recognizes as a signal that he is thinking hard about what to say next.
“I think…” the Russian murmurs, pursing his lips, “I think that it would be best if we talked about it.”
Freddie sits up straighter, the part of him which is normally dormant these days suddenly sending sparks of unease up and down his back. “What?”
“I think…” Anatoly repeats, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, “That we should talk about it. Because we love each other. And so we should know each other.”
Freddie softens at that. This isn't a trap. This is something soft and well intentioned. He scoots closer, and lightly kisses Anatoly’s cheek. “Okay, love. We can talk about it.”
His boyfriend follows him as he sits back. Sometimes Freddie forgets how touchstarved Anatoly can become. He carefully takes the man into his arms, and they lean back together until the two former chess gods have melted into one. Freddie strokes the skin along the back of Anatoly's head all the way down to the base of his neck, creating a steady rhythm.
He guides his head to rest over Freddie’s chest, where his heart is still going. Proof they survived all of it. When he does speak, Freddie lets his voice rumble low in his chest, something years of HRT allows him to do.
“Do you want me to go first, Tolyenka?” Say ‘no.’ I’m not ready yet
Anatoly shakes his head, just slightly. “I think that I should go first.”
“Alright then.” Freddie carefully lifts up one of Anatoly's hands. He notices that the cuff of his sleeve is already rolled up a bit. He gently kisses the scars along the skin, the reason Anatoly used to always wear long sleeves. Freddie has always wanted to know, but he knows better than to ask. Now, he has an opportunity. “I love you,” he promises, “And I’m listening.”
Anatoly breathes shakily, and Freddie holds him closer, threading their fingers together. He wants to carve open his chest just to hold this man closer. And the passion isn't even scary, because Anatoly would crawl inside willingly.
“I wanted to be dead for a long time. Things kept changing. I couldn't be enough for Svetlana, and she wasn't enough for me. Later on… I loved— I love my daughters, but I was never meant to be a father. And I was suffocated by it all.”
Freddie kisses the place where their fingers intertwine and waits for him to continue.
“It started with little things. I stopped looking both ways before I crossed the street. I figured people would think there was an accident or an execution, not a suicide. Sometimes, I would speak out of turn in hopes that they would punish me. It never worked. They hated me, but I was too useful to be turned into damaged goods. More damaged than I already was, anyway.”
Freddie’s grip tightens on his hand and upper arm. Anatoly looks up at him, his forehead brushing against the stubble on Freddie’s chin. “I’m okay, now. I made it out, Freddie. I made it to you.”
“What they did to you is reprehensible,” Freddie mutters, ready (as he often is) to fight a one man war against the entire Soviet Union. Anatoly often gets the same feeling about the United States, his parents in particular, when they talk about Freddie’s own past.
Anatoly just whispers Freddie’s name and Russian words, some of which he recognizes as soft, gentle things that he never used to think the man capable of. Eventually, Freddie is calm again. Anatoly’s gaze is gentle against the angry glint in Freddie’s eyes until they meet in the middle.
“I’m here now, luchik.” Sunbeam.
Freddie swallows. Anatoly should not be the one comforting him. “I’m sorry. I interrupted. Please keep going.”
Anatoly nods, and lets his eyes flutter shut as he sinks back into Freddie's chest. “I was terribly sad,” he whispers, rolling the R in terribly. “Every day, I hoped somebody would save me. Or that I would get some sort of new, incurable disease. But I loved chess, and I played well. I got bigger and bigger. Eventually, I never saw Svetlana anymore, and it made me miserable how much I didn't miss her.”
Freddie wants to kiss him into oblivion and beg him never to feel low again. To promise that it's over and that he’ll never let anything hurt him again. But he knows better than anyone that ignoring old wounds doesn't make them go away. And if Anatoly lived this, then Freddie can listen.
“I buried myself in training. It was two years before we met, the first time I tried. Two efficient cuts, and if they had found me just ten minutes later, that would have been it.”
Freddie’s chest clenches, and Anatoly tightens his grip on his hand. Freddie breathes deep. He’s safe. He’s still here. These are just the skeletons that were already in the closet being laid bare. Freddie can do it.
They breathe together for a moment, and then Anatoly continues. “But they found me. Of course. I woke up in a hospital bed with Sveta and the children weeping beside them. I hadn't seen them in months. I did not know what to say.”
Freddie kisses his head as Anatoly wipes his eyes carefully. So many things are bubbling in his chest, but he stays silent. Freddie can listen until the end, at least for Anatoly.
“They kept me under constant supervision after that. I couldn't butter my own bread or take my belt to a private place. When I refused to eat, they shoved it down my throat.” He takes a deep breath. “Eventually, I decided that I would have to continue enduring, at least for a while. I ate, I engaged in the game, and I pretended to be well adjusted. I took up alcoholism, but I didn't let it mess with my game. I still cared about the game, more than I did them killing me. I mourned the person I thought it could have made me. I was doing exactly what I wanted. I was miserable. Svetlana would say as much to my face, years later.
“Then, of course… We met.” Anatoly looks up at him. “The security in Merano wasn't as good as Moscow. It was the day before the first match, when I found a small knife. They’d been going on about all the ways they wanted to throw you off, to ensure my win. They claimed it was so I could live, so I wouldn’t be killed. I told them I was already dead. I locked myself in a closet. I wasn't precise. I wasn't careful. I just wanted to see red. I just wanted to hurt.”
He raises his wrists both for Freddie to see, and Freddie takes them gently in his hands, looking at the two, thick scars and the thinner, more erratic ones around them.
“They got me out. I barely lost consciousness, that's how prepared they were for me to try again. The next day, my wrists were still healing as we played. I was relieved when you threw your fit. It gave me relief from the pain”
Freddie thinks back to that day. He'd noticed that Anatoly seemed strange, but assumed that he just was that way. Besides, he was in his own head. The press conference. The game, the break in play, the negotiations, fight after the game, the rough makeout session in Freddie’s hotel room after the fight, Florence right beneath them and in love with both. Anatoly hadn’t taken his shirt off. Freddie hadn’t either. He hadn’t wanted to expose his still healing top surgery scars. Anatoly, apparently, had been hiding wounds as well.
“Then there was the break. The fighting. Florence…” Anatoly stops talking, and he looks up at Freddie. The two of them don’t discuss their shared colleague often. She might have loved one or both of them. They idealized her in their own ways and then forced her to leave. But it’s a subject that brings back a difficult time.
“Go ahead,” Freddie murmurs. “I’ll have to talk about her, too.”
Anatoly looks slightly relieved at that. He kisses Freddie’s hand again, pulling him closer. “Kissing you in that hotel room was electrifying. I’d never been with a man, before you. It’s harder to get away with when you are a chess prodigy in the CCCP. But Florence was in love with me, or the idea of me, or at least putting on a very good show. I fell into the security of that, instead. I defected for her.”
Freddie knows this. But Anatoly has never spoken of his time with Florence.
“It was different from Svetlana. I was certain that meant better. I said to Svetlana, ‘I wish I could kill myself,’ and she told me ‘that doesn’t make you special.’ I said to Florence, ‘I wish I could kill myself,’ and she told me to stop being silly, that I was with her and I would never have to leave.” The Russian cuts himself off, and then whispers, “I do not wish to kill myself now. But if I did, and I told you, you would never have said either of those things.”
Freddie just leans up once again, planting another light kiss on his forehead.
Anatoly continues. “But Florence wanted a fantasy life. She would not let my sadness get in the way. She was quiet in the way she hid kitchen knives. She never looked at my hands. I thought it was a blessing to be with someone who didn’t feel the need to talk about it.”
Freddie just nods. Florence’s desire for fantasy, for simplicity, is something he struggled with, too.
“I did not try again, but I continued to lack self preservation instincts. Florence would button my seatbelt for me. She would check to make sure I had turned the oven off. It upset her deeply, my disdain for life. But she never addressed it. I tried to bring it up again. She told me that she didn't understand why she wasn’t enough for me. She called me selfish. I dropped the issue. Then came Bangkok.”
Freddie winces, already aware of how he is going to factor into this. Anatoly graciously ignores him in favor of continuing to speak. “I was tired of it all. When we three met, it was all I could do not to beg you to get me out. You, the blueprint, the grandmaster who escaped into something calmer. You kissed me with anger and spite, but you did it right, too.”
Freddie’s chest is tight as he remembers what comes next.
“Then, the interview. You asked me about homes. I had a homeland. I had a place where I resided. I did not have a home.” Anatoly takes a slow breath in and out. Freddie matches it, and they take two more together. “You know much of this, already. I stormed out, and Florence promised me passionately that you were just trying to ruin things. That you were trying to hurt her. I knew she was wrong, but it felt good to believe her. Then Svetlana, begging me to come back herself. There were tears in her eyes. I did not look into them after I noticed. I convinced myself she hated me, and I refused. Then you came back, spinning tales about Florence’s father.”
Freddie wants to apologize, but he knows that horse is thoroughly beaten. Anatoly’s tone signals the same thing. This is not a review of all the ways we’ve hurt each other. I love you. I am telling a story.
“I knew I needed to return. That protecting Sveta was actually a purpose, something I’d been looking for now that chess was meaningless. But I did not want to go back. I did not want to stay where I was. I did not want to live, but I felt as though I could not die.” He laughs. “I thought you must be an angel, when you came to me the second time. When you spoke of nothing but the game, and you gripped my upper arm as you insisted that the politics was not important. I wanted to kiss you again. I wanted to know anything and everything you would let me see of you. But you pushed me forward, instead. I won because of that. And yet, I went back to the Soviet Union. Sveta and I lived three more years together. And I would still be there now, despite the fact that nobody cared anymore, if it were not for you. But, that may be a part of your story.”
There is a stretch of silence.
“I don't want to kill myself, Freddie. I really don't. I love you, and I love our life, even when it's hard and frustrating. Even when I’m sad, I want to live through it because later, I will be happy again. I don't know where any of this is coming from, I just…” he swallows thickly and wipes his eyes again, trying to burrow deeper into Freddie’s chest. “I wanted you to know that I'm not going anywhere. And I wanted you to know me… and I want to know you.”
Freddie gives him another moment to speak, and then he whispers, “Oh, Tolyenka,” and Anatoly crumples into him.
Tolyenka. Freddie won't say he isn't still petty, but the decision to research Russian nicknames before Merano was another level. Tolya is the standard. Tolyenka is more intimate. Freddie used it once, and the way Anatoly flinched made him feel like a murderer. It was just Tolya, after that, taunting but not cruel.
When he wrote to him, he addressed him as Anatoly. When he moved in, he stayed Anatoly until he found out about Freddie’s transition. Then, Tolya. And he meant it.
They grew more and more comfortable with one another until one day, the sex was gentler than ever before, and as they drifted into sleep, it just slipped out. Tolyenka. And Anatoly broke within his arms. Apparently, nobody has called him that before, and meant it.
The next morning, determined to make up for years of not treasuring this man above all else, Freddie rose early and bought him flowers and fresh baked bread. That was the day they admitted they loved each other.
Now, Anatoly is crumpled in his arms the same way he was the first time the endearment slipped out of Freddie’s lips in a way that was endearing. Freddie kisses every part of his face slowly. He syncs his own breathing with the rapid rise and fall of Anatoly’s chest so that he can subtly calm them down together.
“I promise we are going to finish this conversation, honey,” Freddie says, as he coaxes his partner into an upright position. “I’ll vomit my entire fucked up past onto the coffee table, but first, may I go get us some water?”
Anatoly nods.
Freddie kisses the top of his head. “I’ll be back in a moment, serdste moyo.”
Anatoly’s lips quirk upwards. Freddie is satisfied by the lack of laughter at his pronunciation. He hasn't learned a lot, but he has a few phrases he's confident with. He has a small translation dictionary on his bedside table. He’ll never be fluent, but he can mess with his boyfriend’s heart rate once in a while by peppering something new in. Serdste moyo, my heart, is his favorite.
He fills the glasses slowly, watching the water bubble then settle. He brings them back to the couch, and Anatoly whispers thanks and drinks his quickly. Freddie sips his more slowly, letting them sit in silence for a while.
“I have a different kind of story than you do. It is messier, and I didn't just hurt myself. I hurt the people around me, including you. You do not owe me your ears if you would rather not know.”
Anatoly sets down his cup. “I love you. Nothing changes that. And I want to know you, if you want to tell me.”
Freddie takes a deep breath. “I don't want to lose you, Anatoly. You've changed my life in so many ways. But the person I was isn't easy to love.”
“I didn't fall in love with you because it would be easy, lyubimyy. If you will share, I want to listen.”
He nods. “Okay. Okay then. I just…”
Anatoly’s warm hand covers Freddie’s, which had been tapping anxiously on his knees. “You can say nothing to scare me away now, Frederick Trumper. You are mine, always.”
“Okay. It’s not pretty.”
“Nothing worth loving is pretty at first glance except your face, dear.”
Freddie lets out a sharp laugh at that, and he takes another sip of his water. Anatoly smiles at the pink in his ears. He reaches forward and gently captures Freddie’s lips in a kiss. Freddie melts into him, high on the feeling of Anatoly’s fingers running through his hair, of his mouth pressed into a smile against Freddie’s own.
Freddie pulls Anatoly back onto his chest as he lays back, wondering where he’s even meant to start with this story. Anatoly tilts his head to look up at him, and his eyes are so warm. So inviting and trusting. Freddie tries to memorize the way they look now. He’ll do anything for Anatoly. Even lose him.
“There’s nowhere to start but the beginning, so excuse me for repeating things you already know.” He takes a deep breath. “They told my mother at the hospital that I was a girl, which I assume the vagina communicated to them, but she didn't care either way. She bought the clothes that were the cheapest, and just called me 'child.’ My father called me Janie when he was still around, but I found out later that my birth certificate didn't even say that. It said my name was Kate. And then I changed it.”
Freddie exaggerates the ‘T’ and lets out a dark laugh. “I think that they couldn't remember what I was supposed to be, some of the time. I cut my hair with the kitchen shears and nobody said anything. He’d yell ‘get in here, boy’ sometimes and wonder why I was smiling. I wonder if he caught on towards the end. If he was calling me 'queer’ because I was a transsexual or just because I was an effeminate young boy. At the time I just knew he was saying it to hurt my feelings. But I had my chess set, and I knew who I was going to be, even if it was foolish. I just kept to myself. They were always fighting, and I didn’t want to know why. It was probably me. I didn’t want to know for sure. I knew I could get out. I knew where I was going. I knew that I would get there. And I knew that the system would never take me, but I knew that I would win anyway.
“My father left when I was 12, before I grew a chest or did anything that might have made the ambiguous gender things easier to exploit. My mother forgot to tell me, for a while. I didn’t miss him, even though I was terrified that it was my fault. I couldn’t ask them, y’know? What if they said ‘yes, it is.’ But I understood chess. I knew how the pieces moved, it made sense to me. I knew the grandmasters, and I knew I was good enough to be one of them. I thought that maybe, now that he was gone, she would see that as well. But she barely saw me at all. My mother let man after man into her bed, into our home, and I ignored them. I think she married one of them. It ended. I watched them all roar her down. I watched them all yell at her. I watched her look at me and barely recognize me at all. I realized that my family was broken, and that I couldn’t hold all of that against my father. I realized that there was an entire world out there that wouldn’t want somebody like me.
“I was lucky, really. I really was good at chess, and I was a good liar. I was, or, I am stubborn and petty. I named myself Frederick, never forgetting to tag ‘people call me Freddie’ onto the end, which I thought made it more believable. I found a community. I got the hormones I needed, taught me how to speak lower, how to stand, and how to hold myself in a room like I’d never been told ‘no.’ I knew early. I learned to pass. I started playing chess, working my way through all the levels. I met Florence, and we fell into each other. It was never love, but we didn't know what else to call it.” Freddie pauses, thinking. “It was codependency.”
Anatoly nods, and Freddie laughs at the seriousness on his face.
“It really was. She wanted to feel like she was saving somebody, after she lost her father. I wanted a mother who loved me. We had a lot of sex about it. There was no pretending that we were happy. I hated her for trying to control me. She hated me for not understanding why I needed to be controlled. But that helped, too, because we both needed something to be angry at. I either refused to take my pills or I took too many. The first time, it was pettiness. I didn't know what happened if you took too much lithium, but I knew it would upset her if I did because I wouldn't be listening properly. She caught me really fast that time. Turns out, it can kill you, and they had to pump my stomach. Florence was horrified, so I decided that it was hilarious but I wouldn't do it again.
“When she was done nursing me back to health, she yelled at me about how suicide was cowardly, and I should not behave like a coward. I hadn't thought about killing myself since I was still at home. I didn’t think it was cowardly, I just knew I had too much to get done first. What would it prove? Nothing. I had to succeed, first. It wouldn’t hurt anybody, if I died, that’s what I hated about it. If my parents loved me deep down, maybe I could have stuck it to them, pointed out how fucked they were behaving. But my mother was never going to check the obituaries. I had to matter before I died. I was going to go big. I had to live, in order to do that.” Freddie takes a deep breath. “Then, I did make it big. You remember. I was a dick, but they ate out of my hand. I was rich and influential. Everyone hated me, sure. But everyone knew my name, the name I picked. And I loved living like that. I loved the attention.”
Freddie strokes the stubble on his chin for a moment. “I’m not sure if my gender change ever got out in the media, actually. I did so many other outrageous things, maybe it was a footnote. Maybe I was really lucky, and it never leaked. It probably doesn’t matter now. At the time, I was on top of the world. I’d been taking testosterone for long enough that I could grow a beard. I even got my breasts removed, and I could finally stop wearing a binder every day. But as all this happened, the fame made everything else worse. I didn’t take my pills, and when I stopped, I wanted to take them even less, for much crazier reasons. Florence grew tired of mothering me, and I grew tired of being smothered. Chess wasn’t just a game, you know this. There were a million other things happening, a million political games on each side. It made me want to rip my hair out. And then we were in Merano.”
Freddie breathes in slowly, and exhales through his teeth. “I’ll never make up for how I treated you, Anatoly. It’ll just get worse when we reach Bangkok. And I’m never going to try to excuse my behavior. You know that, right? It doesn’t matter what was happening to me. And, I know I’ve said it already, but I’m sorry.”
Anatoly murmurs something that Freddie does not understand.
“What?”
“We are standing on the bridge,” he repeats, looking seriously up at Freddie through long lashes.
“What?” Freddie repeats.
Anatoly lets out a humph, like he always does when Freddie doesn’t comprehend him. “We are standing on the bridge, Solnyshko.” Sun. “We are above the water.”
Freddie nods in understanding. “The water is under the bridge. I get it. Thank you.”
Anatoly nods and waits expectantly for Freddie to continue.
“I thought you were like them. And I resented you for agreeing to be a part of it all. I resented myself for the same reason. I also knew about you and Florence, which didn’t help matters. Then of course, I saw you, face to face. Your goddamn eyes, Tolyenka. Irresistible. The game ended, you and I ended up in each other’s arms, and Florence betrayed me. We fought viciously, Florence and I, for the first time in ages. The combination of your hands and her anger was invigorating, in a twisted way. I said things I shouldn’t have. She did things she shouldn’t have. And I think we really saw each other, for the first time. That was the end. She wasn’t my mother. I wasn’t her father. The sex wasn’t even that good.
“It all happened very quickly, the feeling of your lips still seared into mine as you left with her in your arms. And then I was done. I didn’t know what else there was to do besides drink. Somewhere in there, I got a penis. That was fun. It somehow didn't cure everything else, though. Shocker. I drank a lot. I found a few women to treat the way I treated her, but they never fought back like she did, or knocked me into line. They took it, and I felt even worse. I bought them expensive things they’d mentioned wanting and sent them on their way with half apologies. Eventually, I realized that I'd already done everything that little me thought I'd do. I was a famous chess player. I was every part a man, just like I wanted. But I was miserable. And I was finished. I couldn’t call my mother, couldn’t rub it in her face. I didn’t even know if she would remember me, and I couldn’t possibly withstand knowing that she didn’t. So, with nothing else I could think of to do, I overdosed. Three times, between Merano and Bangkok, all in the first year.
“It would start with crippling stomach cramps and vomiting. Then, my head would get foggy. I’ve no idea how they kept finding me, but I woke up feeling shitter and shittier, and increasingly frustrated with my inability to die, in a hospital bed each time. I yelled at the nurses for saving me. When I wasn’t trying to die, I was causing problems for other people. I don’t remember all of it. Once, I ended up in a church, screaming at a children’s choir about God being dead. They tried to lock me up, once. I can't remember why it didn't work. I didn’t care. Things were just sort of happening. Eventually, I got a job. I don't remember how it happened. But I went along with it, figuring that the suicide wasn't working so I’ll see if I can get myself killed some other way. I kept death in my back pocket, just in case. That's how I arrived in Bangkok. And… I think I have to talk about this part. But, I--”
“It’s okay, moya polovinka. I am here.”
Freddie takes a deep breath, letting it fill his torso, pressing against Anatoly’s hips. “When I saw you and Florence again, together, I had no idea what to do with myself. I remembered the way she’d kept me in line. I remembered the way you’d set me on fire. The first felt more realistic, so I went with that, determined to win her back and thereby punish both of us. I acted out. Of course, the fucking governments got involved, with their fucking impending nuclear winters. They orchestrated the interview, and I added fire until I was sure it would hurt. God, it was all fucked. And I just… the fucking deals and the backhanded interactions. Florence was angry, and you were sad. All of it made me feel terrible, which wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted you to be this abstract figure, who stole Florence. But you were a man, and I’d seen how you looked with swollen lips and eyes lit with desire. I knew what you meant, during the interview, when you looked me in the eyes and said ‘you know my motivation.’”
Freddie sniffles. “I played chess, too. I didn't even remember it, with how wrapped I was in everything else. So much fighting, and all of it for nothing. But I broke free of it all, eventually. And I decided that I could do one last good thing, so I found you. You remember what I said.”
Anatoly smiles gently. “You told me that you can’t be the only one who wants this to be about chess. You insisted that you’d seen a weakness, that you could help me win. You told me to forget about the rest of it. You told me that the only thing that matters, the only reason we are all here, is because of chess. You gripped my upper arm, and it was like I was being pulled back into my own body.”
Freddie swallows. “Yeah. That. And I watched the game. And I watched the glint in your eyes as you made the final move, the conviction in your voice as you announced it. And I thought that you would go back to Florence, and that I probably fuck off and die or something. Then you went back to Russia, and I never quite got around to it. I sort of got my life together. Bought this place, sold a ton of my junk and gave the money away. I settled into a routine. It wasn’t happy, but it was healthier. I learned to cook. I played chess in the park, and I let some kids win. I took my medication. I started a garden. You know all of this. That’s how I became the Freddie that wrote you a letter. Maybe not a nice one, definitely not anything detailed or poetic. Maybe not one that I expected a response to, as you know. But I wanted to put it on the table.”
“‘Dear Anatoly, I have a spare bedroom in my apartment if you ever want to leave Russia. Sincerely, Freddie Trumper.’ I have no idea how it actually made it to me,” Anatoly chuckles.
“And then you actually showed up at my door with the envelope in hand and a suitcase. Which I absolutely didn’t expect.”
He laughs again. “You dropped your mug of coffee on the ground.”
“I did! Because it was insane that you showed up!”
“You invited me.”
Freddie nods, rolling his eyes. “I did, yes, yes, I did. And I let you stay, didn’t I? Albeit with some ground rules.”
“Do not go into my bedroom, Anatoly. Do not be too loud, Anatoly. Do not leave without telling me where you are going or leaving a note, Anatoly.”
“You had never lived here before!” Freddie exclaims indignantly. “I was worried for you. I didn’t want to deal with the fucking government anymore.”
Anatoly nods. “But guess what?”
“What’s that?”
“Everyone has forgotten about us.” He smiles wickedly.
Freddie laughs. “Yes, I suppose they have.” He leans in and kisses him. “Thank goodness.” He takes a deep breath. “I didn't consciously give up on the notion of killing myself. It just slowly felt less and less imminent. Then, I woke up and wondered if you could get the same thing. If chess didn't need to be the end. So I wrote to you. I still kept killing myself in my back pocket. And it wasn't until one day, when we’d finally let each other in somewhat, when I saw you pouring two cups of tea without asking if I would want one, that I realized that I never would. I walked over and kissed you for the first time since Merano.”
Anatoly smiles. “I remember.”
“And now here we are.” Freddie leans forward and kisses him once again.
“Now here we are,” Anatoly echoes at a whisper.
It was a strange feeling, the way Anatoly had snuck up on Freddie. He'd gone from roommate to friend very slowly, the two of them slowly opening up to each other. In the beginning, Anatoly was on edge. Freddie didn't blame him for being anxious, he clearly didn't think the invitation was well intentioned. And he must have been desperate to get out if he came anyway.
But, slowly, he started joining Freddie for dinner instead of taking his plate back to his room and washing it after Freddie pretended to go to sleep so he could listen to Anatoly's movements. Then, dinners went from silence to brief discussion. Anatoly started leaving the house, going on walks and exploring the area carefully. The first few times, Freddie tried and failed to silently follow him. Each time Anatoly noticed him, and let him walk next to him quietly, without comment. Eventually, he just invited him from the start. Eventually, Freddie trusted society enough to say no.
So, they walked together sometimes. They ate together. Eating together turned into talking. Coexisting in the living room turned into solving sodokus together and buying a painting for a blank spot on the wall, Freddie coming out, and Anatoly opening up more about Russia. Soon enough, he was the person Freddie was most comfortable around. Then the tea, and Freddie kissed him.
They were horny, sure, but mostly they were touchstarved. It took them a while to admit that part. But look at them now. God, look at them now. It’s everything Freddie never thought he would deserve. Maybe he doesn’t. But he’s never giving it up.
“I was going to make chicken pesto for supper,” Freddie says. “I’m happy to wait, or order out instead, or… something. I don’t know. Tell me what you need.”
Anatoly thinks for a moment. “Can I help you with the food?”
Freddie beams. “That sounds perfect.”
So that’s what they do.