pitythetrumper

There were only a finite number of things you could do on this island and, for the most part, Freddie was okay with that. But there were the times when he was reminded of Prior or even of Florence and he recalled that there was something he was missing. And it sucked. But he could lose himself in this small crowd as much as he could lose himself in a city full of people since he hadn't gone out of his way to know more than a handful of people here. There were no admirers here, but neither were there the relentless hounds of reporters who just wanted a piece of him. Pieces that he was willing to sell off bit by bit.

It was days like those that he ended up crashing a party or heading to the bar or even gambling as much as he could even if losing did mean that he'd have to work his ass off. There were certain people he was never telling that he lost at anything.

And, surprise, surprise, one of those people was walking into the bar. "Off your leash?" he muttered to himself and then ordered a vodka which he set down at the seat next to him. He didn't offer an invitation and he didn't even look at Anatoly, but the alcohol was there. They weren't friends. They were enemies. Enemies who drank together.

He could taste the lie. They were still rivals. As long as they played chess, as long as they had this history between them, they would always be rivals, but the idea that they were enemies out to destroy the other, that no longer ringed quite as true as it used to. They had other history between them now. History that meant that the drink sitting next to him probably wasn't quite as much a surprise as it would have been a year ago. He took a sip of his own drink and waited. It was possible Anatoly wouldn't even notice him.

Two days after his confrontation with Lex and his bruises had turned interesting shades. Purples and blues and greens and all kinds of shades that shouldn't be on human skin. Still, it wasn't something that he regretted. The only thing that he did regret was that he'd lost. Still, it had served to get a little of his agression out, which meant that for the first time since he'd arrived here, he felt calm enough to sit down at the chessboard. The pieces were set up from memory as he played out one of Sergievsky's games with Viigand. It was that damned King's Indian Defense. That and the fact that Sergievsky didn't appear to remember any of it. That or he was lying or, as he so colorfully suggest of Freddie, he was crazy.

"I'm not crazy," he muttered under his breath, forcing his brain to return to the game instead of some crazy Russian.