Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Oh and about sex?” Benny had said, adjusting his hat. “Forget it.”

He hadn’t missed the way she brushed his hair from his face and looked at him with bedroom eyes. Or, what he assumed would be bedroom eyes.

As he walked away, certain of Beth’s eyes following him, he’d reassured himself that he could do this, put chess first.

After all, he’d been doing it his whole life.

-

He’s seeing Levertov and Wexler and Cleo out the door at the end of the night, their speed chess blitz having concluded with Beth beating all of them and Benny’s wallet almost $100 lighter.

Still, as annoyed as he is at losing the money, he’s got to admit he’s impressed. And a little turned on. But he won’t admit that. Instead, he starts snapping his fingers.

Beth is leaning on the stairway railing, seemingly waiting for him. The thought makes his pulse beat a little bit faster. “What?” she asks.

He decides to tell the truth. “Nobody has done that to me in fifteen years,” he admits.

She looks a little surprised. “Not even Borgov?”

“Not even Borgov.” And it’s true. He hasn’t been so thoroughly beaten in years. Since he was nine years old. Even in Ohio, he’d put up a better showing.

Beth smiles, the pink corners of her mouth quirking up. “And I’m sober as a judge,” she says. “As Alma would say.”

Her lips stay like that, pursed and utterly kissable, Benny thinks. He can’t help but be transfixed by them for a moment. No, none of that, he thinks.

He snaps himself out of it. “I, myself, am not.” The beer must have been getting to his head. Even though it was only one beer. He’s got to go to bed.

He starts walking the short distance to his room, calling out “’Night.”

But then before he really knows what he’s doing, she’s walking by his room, to go set up that god-awful blow up mattress and he’s grabbing her arm.

“Wait. Hey.” This is it, he thinks. He can let her go, ask her some mundane question, pretend he forgot whatever he was going to say, or he can go for it.

“Yes?” She looks up with him with her wide doe eyes, the same eyes that cut through him when they’re playing, the same eyes that can look at a game from the second move and immediately see twenty, thirty moves ahead. The eyes that make him feel like a trapped knight.

He waits a minute. He’s attracted to Beth like the pieces on a board are attracted to the king. Like magnets are to the cheap metal that make up the chess trophies.

But he knows this is so much more monumental.

Now or never.

He leans against his doorframe, steadying himself.

“Do you still like my hair?” His voice is unsure, which is uncharacteristic for Benny Watts, who strides into hotels like he owns them, who deftly makes his every move on the board, never letting his opponent question his surety. But now, his voice is questioning, open, vulnerable.

He knows what he’s asking, knows that she remembers. He hasn’t missed the way that she’s looked at him when he’s shirtless, sitting in just his robe and low-slung jeans while they play. He just hopes she still feels the same way in Ohio.

She stills even more, taking in sharp breath. And for a moment, Benny thinks she’s going to reject him, going to brush his hand off and go back to that blow-up mattress and leave in the morning.

But then she reaches up to touch his face, fingertips lingering on his cheek, before straying to his hair, where she brushes it back behind his ear. She leans in, and he automatically leans down, just a little, not wanting to push it, not exactly sure what to do.

Their lips are close, but not touching. There is still room to back out of it.

She whispers, “Yes.”

And then they’re kissing, and god, this is what kissing should be like. It’s consuming, it’s enveloping, Benny feels like he’s might burn just from this kiss.

Beth continues to thread her hands in his hair and he gently, ever so gently and tentatively places his hands on her waist.

At his touch, she leans more into it.

They stay like that for a while, kissing, exploring each other’s mouth, for a while. Then, when they come up from air, like they’ve been underwater for too long, Benny pulls back, just for a moment.

Beth’s lips are an even rosier shade of pink and there’s a flush on her pale skin. Benny’s sure there’s an accompanying flush on his. And god, he’s starting to get hard.

She stares up at him, maybe a little taken aback by his retreat.

“Do you—do you not want to—” she starts, her voice fighting for control, though it betrays a little hurt. She flicks her eyes down, as if bracing for the sting of rejection.

Benny inwardly grimaces at himself. He’d pulled back to drink Beth in more fully and of course, it ended up that now she’s doubting.

“No, I, no, that’s not what—” God, how has he been reduced to this blubbering mess? He, Benny Watts, always knows what to say, what to do, what the right move is. But he is on completely uncharted territory here, like the first people playing chess, making up the rules.

He steadies himself and takes a breath. “Beth, I want. I want so badly,” he breathes.

She meets his eyes again and smiles. That smile. He could kiss her, just kiss her, for days, and be happy, he thinks.

“Okay,” she says and takes his hand, tentatively. She takes it and then she’s leading them into his bedroom and she’s sitting on his bed and fuck, he just wants to commit the sight of her sitting there to memory and he’s standing before her, a pawn on an open row.

She looks up at him expectantly. “I’m ready,” she says.

This part, this part he’s a little familiar with. But not very. So he leans in again and kisses her.

This time, it’s her who deepens the kiss, pulling at his shoulders, bringing him down so he’s lying on top of her. He braces his hands beside her head, to try not to crush her. Beth brings her hands to slip under his thin t-shirt, running her hands up and down his torso, settling on his back.

She, it seems, is not so concerned about crushing him. She parts her still-clothed legs slightly, ever so slightly, so he is nestled between them, their jeans rubbing together and providing the most unbearable friction.

He thinks he might come right and there.

The chilling thought causes him to pull away, just a little. Their bodies are still touching, foreheads only centimeters apart, his hair brushing hers.

“I…” he starts, not sure what to say, how to say it.

Beth, it seems, is a little more sure. She takes the opportunity to pull at the hem of his shirt, and he pulls back a little more to allow her to take it off completely. His chains lift with the shirt but then clink back, brushing ever so gently against her shirt.

He’s been shirtless in front of her before. When he’s walking around in just his robe and jeans, or when he’s getting out of the shower, towel wrapped around his hips. But this is different. So very different.

He looks into her eyes, which are drinking in (approvingly?) his chest.

Beth also takes the opportunity to remove her shirt, seamlessly pulling on it and discarding it by the bed in one motion.

Benny thinks his jaw must drop. She’s not wearing anything special (he doesn’t think), but still the sight of her in a plain cotton bra is a sight to behold. He is overcome with an urge to reach out and touch her.

As if reading his mind, Beth, who has shifted up a little so only her feet drape off the edge of the bed, leans back on her elbows and says softly, “You can touch me.”

His more primal urges take over (which would be disconcerting for Benny, who prides himself on his logical, analytic mind, if he wasn’t so darn distracted right at this moment). He leans back in, resting his arms on either side of her and starts to kiss her again.

Their chests collide, and the feel of skin on skin is exquisite. He thinks, hopes, from the breathy sounds Beth is making that it feels the same for her.

Remembering Beth’s words, he carefully, ever so carefully, reaches up with one hand to cup her breast, giving an ever so gentle squeeze. God, she’s so supple and soft and he thinks he could fucking live here.

He alternates hands and they continue like that for a few minutes, deep kisses and gentle squeezes and fingers through hair, and then Beth pulls away.

Benny immediately seizes up, the possibility of having done something wrong scaring him more than when he’s in check and can see a path for his opponent to checkmate him.

He’s about to ask if everything’s okay, if she wants to stop (hell, does he want to stop? No, he thinks, definitely not), but then she’s reaching behind her and unclasping her bra and then it’s coming off and Benny is definitely slack-jawed this time. And, he realizes, hard as fuck.

Beth shifts onto her side and Benny follows her lead, also shifting to his side, his necklaces draping so they hit the bedsheets.

She leans back in and they’re kissing again, and god, all Benny wants to do for the rest of his life is this, forget chess, fuck chess. (Even in his haze though, he takes that back immediately. All he wants to do is this and chess for the rest of his life. Nothing else, though.)

And then Beth is brushing his jeans with her hands and he lets out a guttural groan, urging her on, and then she’s unbuttoning his jeans, and before he knows it, he’s helping her and shimmying out of them and he is down to his boxers. And then, as if neither of them are really thinking, she’s guiding his hands to her jeans and they’re doing the same, and then they are lying side by side in only their underwear.

They take a moment to look at each other, in this vulnerable state. This is unlike anything before. The past few weeks have been intimate, in a way. They’ve gotten to know each other, know exactly how each other plays, what makes them tick in a game, what thoughts go through their head when they analyze. But that form of intimacy had been of a whole different kind, even if Benny hadn’t missed the way Beth looked at him across the kitchen table. This intimacy is decidedly sexual, and the air is thick with the tension.

He looks down at her, naked except for her plain panties, with her red hair framing her heart shaped face and he thinks it might be the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.

He knows Beth can see his erection through his boxers, and he has to fight down a part of him that wants to cover it with his hands, to hide.

Beth, it seems, has the opposite idea. “Can I,” she says, hesitating. But then she seems to decide to go for it. “Can I touch it?” she says, gesturing down.

He doesn’t think he can form coherent words, so she just nods.

And then she’s slipping her hands into his boxers and he’s arching into her touch and fuck, shit, goddamn, it feels so fucking good.

She looks up to meet his eyes, which are labored, intense, his mouth slightly parted. He looks into hers and sees orbs that threaten to swallow him. He tenses, reaching his hand down to hold her wrist, to still it.

She follows his hand down, while relaxing her hand’s grip on him. “Is something wrong?” she asks, her tone open, no double meanings behind it. Just asking.

She is being open and honest with him. And he doesn’t know if it’s Beth or the (one) beer or the absolutely overwhelming sensations he’s feeling, but he decides, for once, to lay it all out there. To be honest. To be open. To be vulnerable.

He swallows. “Yeah, I.” He struggles. How to say this? He flicks his eyes away from her, concentrating at a spot on the wall, where he has a chess poster hung up. He swallows again.

“I’ve never done this before, Beth,” he finally admits, the words leaving him in a gasp, a confession he wants to swallow back up even as he’s saying them, even as he’s laying himself out there (literally).

He can feel her still and pull her hand away from him. Fuck, he thinks, now he’s done it. Ruined his shot.

She breathes in shakily. “Done what?” she asks, her voice just slightly shaky.

Is she really going to make him spell it out? He thinks.

Well, he’s already started it, might as well go all in for the queen sacrifice now, he thinks.

“Had sex,” he says, the two words coming out slow, embarrassed.

She’s silent for a long moment and Benny finally finds it in himself to look back to her eyes.

She’s staring straight at him, brown eyes still dark, but more focused, intent, quizzical, this time.

Finally, she speaks. “I didn’t,” she says. “I thought…” her voice trails off.

Yeah, of course. Of course she thought that he’d had sex before. Because he, Benny Watts walks around with all the swagger in the world and wouldn’t dare let anyone know anything that could be construed as a vulnerability. Like being a virgin at 24.

And that was why he’d said “Forget about it.” Not just because he thought they needed to focus on chess (though that factored in). But the thought of laying himself out there, of admitting that to Beth when she’d already beaten him in Ohio had scared the crap out of him. He’d thought, if he could just keep that distance, that they’d be okay. But now they’re here.

He’s not ashamed of it, exactly. He’s been playing chess professionally since he was six years old. That doesn’t exactly leave you much time to meet girls, especially given the scarcity of them on the chess circuit. His first priority has always been chess. His second priority, chess. His third priority, cultivating his cowboy-pirate persona.

Sure, he’s had opportunities before. And he’s not totally innocent. He’s had his share of teenage make-out sessions and awkward gropings in twin beds (okay, twice). Cleo had been more than willing. But he’d just never met someone that he thought this is what I want to do with them. That he’d felt overwhelming desire for. Until Beth.

And Benny Watts is a lot of things, but he is not one to do things thoughtlessly, carelessly.

So yeah, he’s a virgin. (Besides, anyway, from all his acquaintances in New York who go to underground bars with bad poetry readings and drink black coffee and list their profession as “artist” even though he thinks they’re more struggling than anything else, virginity is a social construct).

Beth’s voice shakes him out of his reverie, her hand lightly resting on his torso. “It’s okay,” she says.

And for a moment, he’s afraid her “okay” means she’s going to leave and go back to that air mattress and it’s not even the thought of the loss of sex that scares him, leaves him breathless, but the thought of losing Beth, of this damaging something between them.

But then, she’s leaning back into him and bringing their bodies closer together so they’re pressed together, her chest deliciously pressed against him, and slinging her leg over his hip, and they’re kissing and Benny feels like all is right in the world again.

This kiss is slow, languid, almost soft. But there is always that edge that lies between them, as it does all players, all opponents.

After a while (or it could be after only seconds, Benny has lost track of time and he has no interest in really keeping it), Beth makes a move and suddenly Benny is on his back and she’s sitting on top of him, her palms against his chest.

He looks up at her, sure his eyes are clouded with lust. She looks back at him with equally dark eyes, but a question in her eyes. (They’ve never been great at verbalizing things that don’t have to do with chess).

So he nods and she slips her hands down to his waist and starts to slip off his boxers. He arches, just a little, to help her and soon he is completely naked. He is completely naked below Beth Harmon.

Beth takes in the sight of him, her lips parting slightly.

In another first for Benny, he starts to feel unsure. Am I big enough? Am I good enough? Does it look right? God, I hope it looks right.

Benny knows that, anatomically, nothing is wrong with it. Even though he’s never had sex, he cares enough about his looks that he’s had a doctor confirm that everything is alright down there. Still, he can’t help but be unsure, worried that it’s somehow disappointing to Beth. And that’s the last thing he wants to do.

But he has also compared to Levertov and Wexler, who he knows have had sex, and he thinks it looks pretty normal, if not slightly above average, so he hopes and prays.

Shit! Levertov! Benny’s eyes widen. Levertov and Cleo had giggled behind their hands all night, seeing the way he looked at Beth. He’d brushed them off, silly idiots. But when they were leaving, Cleo had whispered, “We left you a little present, just in case. In the market bag.” She’d then giggled, adding “For protection.” At the time, he’d just rolled their eyes, and reminded himself of his own “forget about it” rule.

But fuck, was he glad for them now.

Beth notices his shift and she asks, “What?”

Flustered, Benny motions for her to shift off of him, and she does, though confused.

“I just,” he starts. “I have protection. In the kitchen. I’ll go get it,” he says.

If Beth questions why he has condoms lying around when he’s a virgin, she doesn’t ask, just nods.

He hurries hastily from the bedroom (thankfully it’s not that far), and when he approaches the counter, he sees there, that they did indeed leave three foil packets.

He grabs one and returns, hurriedly, eager to get back.

The first thing he sees when he walks in is Beth, kneeling on her heels on his bed. Almost in the same position he left her in. But this time, she’s not wearing underwear.

He doesn’t know if she was just being pragmatic about it, taking it off in the time he was gone, or if there’s something in the vulnerability of completely disrobing in front of someone else that she’s avoiding, but he tries not to think about it too much.

He flashes the foil packet up by his head, as if it’s a queen piece he just won, and smiles awkwardly.

He goes back toward the bed, not sure what exactly to do.

Thankfully, Beth seems to be as intuitive here as she is on the chess board.

“You should lie down again,” she says.

So he does. Beth crawls over him again. She looks down again, the darkness in her eyes threatening to consume him.

“I still like your hair,” she says.

“What?” he’s a little confused.

“I’m answering your question,” she says plainly.

Oh. “Oh.”

And, she declares, “I want you to touch me.”

That is all he wants to do. For the rest of his life. (Well, that and chess, as he’s already established in his internal monologue).

He nods, even though he’s not sure how. But they’ve been honest so far, so he might as well be here too. He swallows. “Show me.” It’s an ask, it’s a plea, it’s a goddamn prayer.

Beth smiles down at him, and he’s not sure whether it’s because he seems so very eager or if it’s because it’s him asking her to teach him something, but he finds he doesn’t care very much in the moment.

She grabs his hand, lying at his side, and brings it to the apex of her thighs, holding it just above her curls.

“I haven’t done this a lot, either,” she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

Then, she brings his fingers so they’re dragging through her folds, her damp folds and she’s guiding his fingers to her clit (he may be a virgin, but he’s intelligent and he sure as hell knows how to read). She guides him in applying the right pressure.

Her breathing gets more labored and again, Benny thinks he might come right then and there. But he focuses on Beth. He experiments, moving his fingers this way and that, Beth’s hand over his, correcting him every so often.

And then she stills his hand. “I need more,” she says, her pupils small.

He nods, not sure exactly where this is going (though he has a good idea) and lets her guide two fingers inside her.

She starts to rock on him, back and forth, ever so slightly. Beth’s mouth opens in an “oh” and she lets out an audible gasp. The sight of Beth Harmon fucking herself on his fingers, of taking control like this, is downright erotic and he thinks he could stay in this bed like this, forever.

And then he realizes that he should probably be doing something, not just staring at her like an absolute fool and she’s Aphrodite reincarnated (though he thinks, she very may well be). So he starts to move his fingers experimentally and Beth only seems to rock harder against him and then he remembers the books he’s read and he puts a thumb to her clit and then she’s keening against him, chasing something.

He could watch her forever.

But then she stills and stops and Benny’s stomach sinks again and a knot forms in his stomach.

“Is…was that alright?” Benny chokes out.

Beth, at this point flustered as well, nods. “Yeah, it was…it was,” she gets out. They take a moment, both their breaths labored.

Beth starts again, “I want to…let’s do it,” she says, her voice oddly strangled, like she’s not sure if it’s a request, a plea, or a demand. Benny knows her well enough to know that what is passing across her face is a fight for control.

But he’ll let her take control. He’ll never admit it out loud, but in this moment, here, he’s okay with it. It’ll be a different story tomorrow, when they’re at the kitchen table and going over grandmaster games (if he makes it to tomorrow, that is. He’s half sure he might die tonight, from anticipation or excitement or just the overwhelming everything of it, he’s not sure). But tonight, Beth is in control. So he nods.

Beth reaches to the side for the foil packet and opens it, pinching the tip. She rolls it onto him and he hisses at the contact. Fuck.

The world still for a minute. Benny, lying against the gray sheets, erect in Beth’s hand. Beth, above him, looking at him curiously.

“Are you sure?” she whispers.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m sure.” And it’s true. He’s never been more sure. Gone are the feelings from earlier in the night.

She raises herself on her knees and aligns herself with him, bracing her hands on his chest.

And then she’s sinking onto him and fuck, he can’t even describe it, but it’s pure pleasure and she’s so hot and wet and tight around him and he think he could die a happy man right then and there and this, he swears this is actually all he wants to do forever.

She bobs up and down on him, shallowly at first, experimenting, until she finds a rhythm.

Benny lies there at first, transfixed, not understanding how he got this fucking lucky. He’s never been this lucky, not even at poker.

But Benny’s always been a man of action, never one to be still for long. He realizes that sex, just like chess, is a two-person game, so he’s reaches up and grasps at Beth, tweaking her nipples, and she lets out a moan that he’s sure will replay in his mind again and again. The sounds coming out of his mouth, he’s sure, though he can’t focus on them, are just as loud and obscene.

Beth sinks down hard on him and she’s biting her lip and he can’t help but sit up, driving her even deeper, and captures her lips in his.

If he thought that kissing before was good, this is fantastic, excellent, any number of adjectives he can’t quite describe right now but he’s sure are insufficient.

This is like learning chess for the first time. So new and exciting and mind-blowing, but also, as natural as anything he’s ever done.

Beth brings herself even closer to his body, so they’re flush against one another, no space for anything in between them. And then she rolls her hips in a particular way and he thinks he’s hitting her clit and that she’s close and fuck, he’s coming.

He’s coming and it’s the best orgasm ever (better than anything he could imagine while spilling into his hand) and Beth all around him, and there’s not enough space between their bodies where he can put his hands on her breasts again and he can’t get enough, he knows he’ll never get enough, that he’ll spend the rest of his life replaying this moment in head, just as he plays through games all the way through in his head.

When he comes down from his high, his head is bent, his breathing is comes in short pants, he is spent, fuck, and Beth is still all around him.

He looks up at her, her eyes boring into him. But then she quickly looks away, almost as if she’s overcome with a sudden shyness.

Beth smiles awkwardly, a smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes and slips off of him.

Benny looks down and realizes he still has the condom on. He gets up and goes to discard it in the little trash can in his room.

When he turns back around, Beth is lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, as if she’s trying to imagine something.

He settles in next to her, laying stiffly.

“Thank you,” he says. It’s awkward. What do you say to someone who just took your virginity and made you come harder than you ever have in your life.

Shit.

It hits him then. Not that he’s ever had experience with it, but he doesn’t think she came. Fuck.

He doesn’t know quite how to say it delicately, or wittily (as he often does when he doesn’t know how to say things delicately). So he just says it. “You didn’t come,” he states. The feeling that she’s disappointed with him doesn’t set easy with him.

He can see her tense, eyes glancing at the side to him. “It’s okay,” she says softly.

“No,” he finds himself saying. “No, it’s not okay.” An insistent undertone creeps into his voice. “I want to make you feel good,” he says. And it’s true, he wants to make her feel as good as he just felt, wants to experience that with her.

“Benny…it’s alright,” she says, shifting away from him in the bed.

And then he sees it. Sees why, even though he was sure that she was close, why she didn’t come, why she pulled away just as he was spilling over, why she wouldn’t look him in the eye.

And he thinks that, maybe, he might not be the only one experiencing firsts tonight.

Maybe he should let it go. But that’s not who he is. But this, this need for control, is who she is.

But what can he do?

It comes to him, and yes, he thinks he is definitely a genius.

He asks, his voice still husky. “Can I…can I try something?”

She turns her head to him. “What?” she asks, ever curious, ever needing to know.

“Just…” he says. He doesn’t know exactly how to describe. “Just trust me.” Like I trust you.

She looks at him, her eyes narrowing.

“We can stop anytime you want,” he says, softly.

She opens her mouth, he thinks to say no, and he resigns himself to dropping it, he doesn’t want to push her. But then she surprises him. “Okay.”

He turns on his side and shuffles closer to her, still laying flat on her back. He looks into her eyes, and this time he catches how she shifts them away when they meet.

“Turn on your side?” he says, making sure to make it a question.

She does, though she looks back at him once, curiously.

He settles behind her, wrapping his arms around her. God, she feels so good, so right in his arms.

He moves his hands to her breast, playing with her nipple as he starts to kiss her neck, alternating between kissing and sucking and licking, going back through his mind about what she seemed to like and not like during their earlier make-out session.

“Oh,” she says.

He goes slowly, almost tortuously slowly. And then when he can feel her wriggling against him, arching against him, he moves his fingers lower, lower, and touches her like she taught him before. Replaying the game, adding in a new variation here and there.

When he feels she’s wet enough and she’s panting and he can feel her throat mouthing the words “more,” he slips his fingers through her folds, inside of her.

She bucks against his hand, riding it again and he curls his fingers, circles her clit. Again, he’s lost track of time, doesn’t know how long it is, if it’s a decent amount of time or shamelessly short or long, but then she’s tensing.

He can sense she’s at the same place as before, almost ready to let go. But not quite.

He peeks over at her face and it’s contorted, her breathing heavy. But he can tell she’s still holding onto a scrap of control.

His mind races for a way to make her lose it and keep it all at once.

And then, before he really has a chance to think about it, he shifts them more, so he’s almost on top of her, his chest to her back and so her face is completely hidden from him. He’d like to see her, would love to see her when she comes. But her coming is more important.

She gasps softly at this, at the new angle of his fingers, but doesn’t seem to have an objection, simply works herself down on his fingers even more.

He presses a kiss to the back of her neck and then travels lightly down her back, pressing his lips to the knots in her spine, letting her know that he’s not watching, mouths let go into her back and hopes she gets the message.

He places his thumb directly on her clit and then she’s clenching around him and releasing and shattering and letting go and even though he can’t see her, he’s sure that this is in fact, the most beautiful thing.

The feeling is downright erotic and Benny finds himself panting as well, lost in her, lost in her getting her pleasure.

“So that’s what it’s supposed to feel like.”

-

After Beth comes down from her high, they lay like this, Benny’s head resting on her back, Beth facing away.

Benny is still trying to process everything. His question that started it all, his confession, the sex, Beth’s hesitancy to let go, making Beth come, where they go from here.

He’s never been so confused. Never been so unable to sort something out. But here, he’s lost. He’s tilted off his axis, a knight piece knocked off the board. In the moment, he couldn’t think, didn’t let himself think too much about what this all meant. But now, now that they’re settling into the afterglow, it starts to creep up on him. All the unknowns. He needs to get back onto more solid ground, ground he knows. A game he knows.

He tries to set it up, to think it out. Puts them on the board as pieces, trying to see the next moves. They have two more weeks here. Before she heads to Paris. To play Borgov.

“Hello?” Beth’s voice shakes him out of his reverie.

“You should play the Sicilian,” he says, it coming out automatically.

“What?” Her voice sounds confused.

He tries to clarify. “In your game with Borgov, you should play the Sicilian.” He says this with surety, because he is sure about it. After all the unsurety of tonight, he is glad to settle back into what he knows. If he thinks more about tonight, about what they did, what happened, about everything, he thinks his head might explode. He needs this ground beneath them.

“Why? That’s what he’s so good at,” Beth says, seemingly going along with it. After her sudden hesitancy at the end, maybe she needs this too, this board between them, he thinks.

“It’s also what you’re most comfortable with,” he says. “You should always play your line, never his. You play what’s best for you.” This, chess, analysis, is what he’s good at. What they’re most comfortable with.

“…thank you,” she says. He can tell something has shifted. But he can’t quite tell what. “Anything else?” she adds.

He’s played enough daring moves for tonight, so he sticks with the book, with what he knows. “One more thing. They never say check at the big tournaments.”

“Are you serious?” Why wouldn’t he be?

“Yeah, very,” he says. “They never lay their kings down, either.” He blurts it out, the first chess-related thing he can think about. His thoughts, and heart, are erratic.

“I meant, are you serious? This is what you’re thinking about right now?” Of course not. But he’s not sure he can vocalize all the things he’s thinking about. So he’d settled on this.

Her voice is cold, annoyed. “Goodnight Benny.”

“…Goodnight.” He watches as she shifts to her side, pulling away from him again. But this time, he’s not quite sure how to fix it, not sure if he left a piece hanging.