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Chapter Text

It was Tuesday, the first day of fall classes. 

Ivan trekked across the college campus, with the August sun beating down upon him. His neck was slick with sweat, but his soft rosé colored scarf hid it well. Students and faculty commuted from all directions in various forms of transportation. Ivan opted to walk; however, after the time he’s had with the heat, Ivan considered other forms of transportation. In the back of his mind, he told himself to doff the damn scarf, but realistically, that would never happen.  

The heat was humid, and it weighed down on Ivan, making his legs and arms feel heavy at his side. Walking felt like he was traveling through honey, and a layer of gum was stuck under his shoes. The sweltering heat played with his mind, making it like the thick mush he had been walking in. 

The class he was going to was held in a relatively quaint brick building with lush, yet clearly overgrown foliage, overtaking the stacked concrete bricks. The building wasn’t just old, it was considered historic. How ironic. Ivan was surprised it even had air conditioning to begin with. The vines and branches thrived in this environment. Tactically, trees and tall shrubs had been planted around the sidewalks leading up to the building, and on most outdoor walkways on campus, to make the commute more pleasant during the summer. The civil engineers who designed it this way deserved more credit than they were given, likely because Ivan still felt every second the sun had roasted his poor pale skin. 

Refuge from the heat came with a thick blast of cool, air-conditioned breeze that whisked the heat from his face. 

Now that he had finally escaped the sun, it was time to climb three flights of stairs to his classroom, where he would be teaching an introductory course to undergrads. Before the redness had a chance to fade from his cheeks, he glared at the towering staircase and stifled a groan. Such is academic life. 

At the top of the stairs, Ivan held his breath, trying a method called Pretend These Stairs Aren’t Kicking My Cardiovascular System’s Ass, where he pretended that climbing those stairs wasn’t a challenge at all. He bunched a wad of his sweater cuff into his hand and wiped sweat from his forehead. 

It sank in that there would be fifteen more times this semester he would have to do that. At least– Ivan told himself– it will be winter for a couple of those weeks. 

Ivan slowly wandered the halls of the third floor to find his classroom. He repeated the room number in his head, jogging his memory, as if saying it over and over would manifest it in front of him. 

315… 315… 315… aha… 312, 313, 314, and there!

Upon finding it, he turned the doorknob, and it took nearly a whole 360-degree turn to open the door, which indicated that this building was a bona fide fossil. He swung the door open and took in the environment. It was a simple, stuffy room, not much ventilation besides the ancient woodcarved windows that were shut tightly. There was a dusty chalkboard at the front of the room that made Ivan chuckle. Chalkboard, how outdated.  

The floor was covered in worn, stubby moss-colored carpet that had been vacuumed recently, evident by the cleanliness. The room smelled of wood, old paper, and graphite pencils. A thick layer of chalk dust coated the atmosphere; it was a very nostalgic aroma. A faux wooden metal desk accompanied a wooden podium. Ivan placed his bag on the chair of the podium. 

He inhaled the dusty old classroom air and held it there for a few seconds, and slowly released. Two fingers palpated his carotid artery and Ivan sighed. He could no longer excuse his low cardiac function to his diaphoresis and bounding heart rate. Ivan had worked as a TA over the duration of acquiring his Master’s degree; teaching in front of a class was certainly within in skill set. So why was the big Russian man so full of nerves?

Ivan found himself muttering to himself. “It is an introductory class,” he whispered as he pulled his laptop out and set it on the podium, getting it ready to be hooked up to the overhead. “You are Ivan Braginsky, you do not get nervous.” He laughed a little to himself. 

He opened his email to read an email sent from the instructor he was working under. Ah, there was his reason. 

Ivan,

Thank you so much for your help. I received your email about adding some new resources to the syllabus. I appreciate your ambition and value your input regarding how the class can be improved. I’m glad you asked me beforehand before including these sources. Unfortunately, I don’t believe the committee of the history department will approve of these readings. If I were you, I would ask the committee before going forward with any syllabus revisions. 

Thanks,

Prof 

Ivan let out a heavy breath. As a master’s grad student, Ivan had tried very ardently to get alternative historical perspectives embedded into the curriculum and into the syllabus of one of the most popular history professors at his college, to no avail. Asking the committee of the history department seemed like a long way to go. 

From the entrance of the classroom, he spotted a group of young freshmen students who had gathered at the door. They chattered amongst themselves, and although Ivan couldn’t hear their conversation, by the tone of it, their conversation seemed merely transactional and existed only to fill up space. 

“Are you here for the history 111 class?” Ivan approached the students. He looked down at his watch and noticed that it was only fifteen minutes until the start of class. 

Half of the students looked up at Ivan. “We are,” a young man said. He was average height in Ivan’s head, maybe on the tall side to most people, with brown hair that aimed upward. He gestured to two other students beside him, one girl who looked almost like his sister, and one boy who had blond hair. 

“You are in the right place,” Ivan said, “do not be late.”

“Oh, thanks! We were worried we came to the wrong place,” the girl laughed. Ivan’s expression had remained stagnant, leaving the girl to turn her head down and enter the classroom with her quiet friends following behind her. 

The three students found seats in the room, leaving some other students in the hall. A couple more students filed into seats, and when there were only two minutes prior to the beginning of class, Ivan went to make sure the halls were empty and that all of his students had made it on time.  

He stood outside the classroom and noticed a whole line of students waiting outside a classroom that was smack dab across from his door. 

“Are you students also here for History 110?” Ivan inquired.

“Calculus,” one student said, not looking up from his phone.. 

Another student spoke up and clarified. “No, we’re waiting on the instructor to open the door.” 

Ivan nodded. “I see.” He decided to make a mental note that there was another class next door. He left the students and caught a glimpse of the door across from him opening. Room 325. 

“Sorry to keep you guys waiting!” A blonde woman appeared from behind the door. She propped the door open with her foot, standing outside the classroom, getting a good look at her students. Ivan noticed they were mostly freshmen, as well. She must be a TA, Ivan thought; she looked too young to be a professor. 

“Come on in! Don’t be a stranger!” Her voice was loud, magnetic, and melodic. She had short curly waves that she clipped out of her face with star-shaped hairclips, flatteringly displaying her gorgeous, round face with even bigger, round eyes. Ivan paused, realizing he’d been staring. 

“Howdy!” She looked over at Ivan with a smile as radiant as the sun. “You must be my next-door neighbor.” 

Ivan froze like a deer in the headlights. He cleared his throat. “Are… you talking to me?” He pointed to himself. 

“That I am,” she replied. 

“In that case, hello, my name is Ivan.” 

“Amelia.” 

Amelia, Ivan thought. He tested the name out on his tongue. “Amelia?” 

“That’s me!” 

The name was bouncy and bright, just like her, and it took each inch of his mouth to say. She held out her hand, looking up at him with eyes like the vast blue skies and a demeanor as warm as a beautiful field of sunflowers. A warmth swirled in his chest. Ivan hated warmth. 

Ivan backed away, breaking eye contact with the girl, feeling the heat dissipate from his skin. 

“Well, goodbye for now.” He didn’t shake her hand, he didn't smile at her, and he didn’t even notice the way she blinked incredulously as he shut the door in her face. That same heat rose from his chest to his face, which he quickly distinguished as he turned to face the class. It was strange, there were no students who took front or even second row seats.  

“Welcome, my name is Ivan Braginsky, and I am your primary instructor for this course,” Ivan addressed the class.

—

At 5:50, Ivan’s students wasted no time spilling from the lecture, eager to get home as soon as possible, maybe just to get out of his class. Many of the students had left without a farewell, which Ivan found odd since Americans were supposed to be so friendly. Ivan didn’t try to be so intimidating.

But it wasn’t like he ever made an effort not to be. 

After packing up his laptop, Ivan found himself wondering if that other TA was still here. Intrusive thoughts, he dismissed. Ivan wiped down the countertops, vacuumed the carpet, and straightened the chairs so that the room looked better than before he arrived. After killing the lights, Ivan closed the door and noticed that the TA was straightening out papers. Room 325 was much larger, a lecture hall, almost. There were six rows of desks, each descending upon staircases, like a normal lecture hall, but smaller. Ivan noticed the mathematical scribbles on the chalkboard and winced. Math in a math class, the horror. 

There was a tall blond man outside the door, who somewhat resembled the TA, although it was hard to determine if the man was older or younger than her. The man wasn’t nearly as tall as Ivan, but he could recognize his considerable height. His hair was on the longer side, curling around his ears and hugged his neck, and it waved similarly to how the TA’s did.  He wore a blue flannel with a band tee underneath, and worn jeans. He coolly leaned against the doorframe, seemingly waiting for the TA to finish up her work. On his back was a case that held some kind of instrument. If Ivan had to guess, it was a guitar. 

Ivan was about to take off when he heard that TA’s voice. “Ready to go, Mattie?” 

Ivan shook his head and kept walking. 

“Been ready,” the man replied. 

Ivan had escaped their voices when he finally reached the stairwell. Going downstairs was much easier than going down. Thankfully, the air was much drier and cooler now. The sweat that had plagued him had dried, and the cool evening breeze soothed his skin. 

“Ivan, is that you?” a familiar voice called out to him from a bus stop. Ivan turned to the direction of the voice, but even before he saw who it was, he already knew. An old acquaintance from his childhood, Toris, had found him on the university campus, of all places.

“Privet, Toris,” Ivan spoke to him in his mother tongue. “Do you attend classes here?”

The young man was only a couple of years younger than Ivan. They had a multitude of rough encounters in their childhood; it was unspoken, yet they mutually agreed that it was all in the past. That didn’t make Toris any more at ease around him. Toris nodded. “Da, I joined the military. I didn’t want to end up like the other kids, you know.” 

Ivan pondered. Toris may not have received any scholarships right out of high school, like Ivan did. “I am happy to see you are well.” 

“Da, you the same.” Toris weakly laughed. “You are still as big and scary as you used to be.”

“I am,” said Ivan. “But as an adult, there are laws, and such.” He joked. “What are you up to these days?” 

“I am a graduate student, I work as a research assistant for Professor Héderváry,” he said.

“Ah, you studied physics, then?” He recalled the Hungarian professor. 

“Not quite,” he said reluctantly. “My undergrad is in mechanical engineering. Turns out I hated working as an engineer, so I am going to teach it instead.” 

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” Ivan admitted, “We should keep in touch.” A pang of relief vibrated in Ivan’s sternum. Relief that Toris was okay and wasn’t on the street somewhere. Leaving behind those kids in the foster home was hard; he was lucky enough that Katyusha was so strong and brave, she would have never left him and Natalia behind. He wanted to ask about the others. Eduard and Raivis, Toris’s brothers, but he didn’t want to ruin the moment. If Toris were here and he was okay, surely his brothers would be, too. 

“Absolutely, let’s exchange phone numbers,” he suggested. 

After the pair had exchanged numbers, Toris shot a text to Ivan. 

Privet. Don’t be a stranger. 

Ivan cringed at that statement. Where did he learn to say that? What did that saying even mean? Ivan was the strangest stranger who was ever strange. Ivan bade Toris a gentle farewell and left him to the bus stop. 

Behind him, the voice of that TA chimed through the air. Ivan began to walk faster. He weaved through the sea of students and faculty. Being as tall as he was came with privileges such as maneuvering easily through crowds like these. 

A cold raindrop landed on Ivan’s nose, followed by another half a second later. Those around him began popping open their umbrellas. Soon after, just moments away from reaching his car, the sky downpoured. Thankfully, he made it in time and had the pleasure of witnessing that blonde TA and her brother race to their car in the rain. 

“Mattie! Unlock the door!” she yanked on the car door. 

“Easy! Lia, she’s fragile!” he shouted back. 

“Open the fucking door!” She pulled harder. Ivan struggled to make out their conversation from inside the car, as rain pattered on the windshield.

“I’m trying! Fucking- Amelia– stop pulling!” 

Ivan couldn’t help but laugh. It was just like his sisters’ bickering. 

—-

“Are you done yet?” Matt complained. He looked over at the man vacuuming next door and wondered if all the staff were this particular. 

Amelia threw a chalkboard eraser at her brother. “Quit yapping and make yourself useful.” 

“Sir, yes, sir,” he muttered sarcastically under his breath. 

“And no sass, please,” she called out. 

Amelia finished making some notes and began to pack up her belongings. Matthew had already finished cleaning off the chalkboard and he was back, leaning against the door frame. 

“Ready to go, Mattie?” 

Mattie stretched and yawned. “Been ready.” 

“Oh shush.” She casually elbowed him. 

“Did you see that big guy who teaches history right across from you?” Matthew commented once the Russian was finally out of sight. 

“Sure did,” she replied. “We… exchanged some words…”

Matthew let out a laugh. “Yeah, that isn’t vague at all,” he said. “He’s got a major staring issue. He looked at me for like three whole seconds. Which is a lot for a stranger.” 

“He’s probably just shy,” she shrugged. “A cover is not the book.” 

“Well, it doesn’t count as just a cover if he looks like a weirdo and acts like one, too.” 

“Mattie, be nice,” she scolded. “C’mon, I told Papa and Dad we’d call ‘em at 7.” 

“Just sayin’ who wears a scarf in eighty-degree weather?”

“I don’t freaking know,” she groaned. “You know you’re pretty freaking weird, too.”

“Yeah.” He said. “Takes one to know one.” 

Amelia smiled. They shuffled down the stairwell and made their way outside. The sun was beginning to sink in the west, but there was still plenty of daylight left. Dark clouds quickly descended across the horizon and closer towards them, but migrated slowly. 

On their way to Matthew’s car, he heard his sister gasp. “No way, Toris, how the hell are ya’ man!” 

Amelia ran up to a lanky-looking man who had his long brown hair tied back in a bun. He had a calm face, with no sign of turbulence in his green eyes. It was evident when he spoke that he was foreign. “Miss Amelia, it’s good to see you.” He stood at a bus stop, waiting along with a gaggle of others for the bus. 

“How long has it been, two years now?!” She wrapped her arms snuggly around his shoulders, squeezing the life out of him. “Since what, undergrad?” 

“Careful, Lia, he’s gotta breathe, too,” Matthew warned. 

“Oh, he is just fine.” She bit back. 

Matthew couldn’t help but knowingly grin at Toris, who was flushed bright red and fiddling with his fingers. He knew his sister didn’t mean anything besides pure friendliness with Toris, but it often got confused with genuine affection of a different nature. Amelia was overly friendly, and more often than not, that is all she was. 

“What are you doing nowadays? I thought you got that job at General Motors or something crazy.” 

Toris scratched the nape of his neck, awkwardly shaking. “Oh… I guess it just was not my thing, as you might say. I think I want to teach engineering; I am aiming for that.” 

Amelia smiled. “That’s pretty rad, man, I’m so happy for you. Can I ask, who are you working for now?”

“Professor Héderváry, she has been very helpful in my pursuit of research and such,” he said. “What about you?”

“I’m working under Professor Honda, teaching a Calc 1 class for him.” She replied. “He’s very meticulous about his syllabus and lessons. He said he wants to teach some of them himself, but I’m like, dude, it’s Calc 1.” She flicked her wrist like it was light work. 

Toris gave her a light laugh. “Those students are lucky to have a teacher as bright as you, Amelia.” 

It was Amelia’s turn to redden. “Oh, don’t butter me up!” She crossed her arms and smiled. 

“Excuse me for being rude, but please introduce me to your friend here.” Toris gestured to Matthew. 

Amelia relaxed and looked behind her. “That’s just my brother, Mattie–“

“Matthew,” he corrected. His brow furrowed after a second. “Wait a minute– just?” 

“It is nice to meet you, Matthew,” Toris butted in. Just as he said that, a smelly, green bus wheezed closer to the bus stop. It oozed out in a plume and choked the life out of the nearby flora. “Oh, my bus has arrived! I’ll see you around.” 

“It was really nice meeting you, Toris,” Matthew said politely. “I hope to see you again sometime soon, eh?”

“Toris, wait,” Amelia grabbed his forearm. “I have something I need to tell you!” 

Toris froze, his heart racing. “What is it?”

“I’m starting a chess club, it’s just Mattie and me for now, but I’m hoping I can get more people.” She smiled at him. “Bring a friend! A couple of ‘em!” 

Toris looked down at his hands. Amelia shoved a flyer in between his fingers. 

“You’ll come, won’t you?” She asked, her eyes pooled invitingly. 

“Y-yes, of course.” He sputtered without hesitation. 

“Awesome!” She pumped her fist. “I’ll see ya’ there!” 

Matthew didn’t know if Amelia knew the effect she had on people. Did Toris even play chess? She must have inherited that charm and charisma from their French father. Toris departed on the bus, and Amelia and Matthew waved him off. Just then, a droplet of rain landed on Matthew’s forehead. 

“Lia,” he said with doom in his voice. “It’s gonna rain.” 

“What?” She said, looking up at the sky. Thick, gargantuan pewter clouds rolled quickly over their heads. “Shit, let’s go.” 

The droplets turned into what Amelia felt like were buckets of water falling from the sky. Amelia began to sprint to her car, and Matthew ran just a bit faster. “Go go go go go go,” she said behind him.

They approached Matthew’s black Mazda with the peeling paint. He pulled out the keys and pressed down on the unlock button. 

Mattie! Unlock the door!” she yanked on the car door. 

“Easy! Lia, she’s fragile!” he shouted back, pressing the button again. Matthew tried as carefully as he could to quickly shove his guitar into the backseat. 

“Open the fucking door!” She pulled harder.

“I’m trying! Fucking– Amelia– stop pulling!” 

“Matthew!” She covered her head, feeling like a dirty plate being washed in the dishwasher.

“Okay, go!” He said. 

Amelia yanked on the door, and it opened, but the damage had been done. She and her brother were soaked. “This freaking sucks,” she grumbled. 

“Oh, you’re not made of sugar!” 

“But what if I am…” she whispered.

“Je m’em fou,” Matthew retorted. 

Buzzing came from Matthew’s bag. Amelia and Matthew made eye contact, almost telepathically. Matthew reached for his buzzing phone and braced for the imminent barrage of laughter from their parents. “Here, take my phone, I’m gonna drive us home.” 

“So, what, you want me to answer it?” 

“Yeah, duh…”

If you say so, Amelia thought. 

“Bonjour, papa,” Amelia spoke into the receiver. “We just got off campus and are heading home now.” 

“Mon petite, why is your camera off? I want to see your beautiful faces,” he complained. “Arthur, get over here, I can’t figure out this camera!” 

Amelia let out an exasperated sigh. She flipped down the mirror of the passenger’s seat and saw that her mascara and eyeliner were running down her cheeks, and her hair was clumped together in a curly mess. 

“Give me the bloody phone,” the Englishman said before he snatched it. “Let me try this red button…”

“Papa, I have the camera off,” Amelia replied before he accidentally hung up. 

“Well then, there’s your problem,” Arthur said. “Go on and turn it on for us, love.” 

Matthew glared at Amelia. There was a prolonged silence occupied by Matthew and Amelia, just eyeing each other. 

“You two aren’t doing that thing where you look at each other and back at us, are you?” Arthur asked, noting their silence. 

Amelia eyed Matthew back. He rolled his eyes. 

When Amelia turned the camera back on, it was their parents who were the silent ones. “They turned their mic off.” 

“They’re absolutely laughing at us right now.” Matthew guessed.

“Dad, hey, don’t turn the phone down,” Amelia said in a defeated tone. “It's not that funny.”

The mic was activated again, revealing dual heaving laughs. “Lia, dear, have you seen your face?” her English father laughed. 

“Real funny, dad.”

Matthew’s lip twitched upward. “We’ll call you back later, Dad.” 

“Bonne route!” Their father chimed.

“Ugh…” They said in unison. 

After a beat of silence, Matthew said, “it was a little funny.”

The siblings rode home in silence, the windows fogging up the longer they rode. Eventually, the rain had subsided, and in its wake, a brilliant rainbow stretched over the horizon. The sun was falling back, the sky morphing into an incandescent cascade of pink, purple, and blue. The remaining clouds looked like cotton candy that could be picked right up and served. 

Matthew had pulled into the driveway at just the right moment. If it weren’t for the wet dog smell the rain stained her with, she could just sit on the porch with her damp clothes and stare at the sunset until nightfall. 

They led into the house and changed clothes. Amelia changed into something more casual than her school clothes. Today she opted for a black short-sleeved button-down; thank goodness she decided on the black one and not the white one when she was caught up in the downpour. After stripping it off, she pulled a loose V-neck over her head and settled for some old black sweats. 

Make-up still ran down her face. 

She skipped down the hallway, passed the living room where Matthew was lounging on the couch in his work clothes. She stopped to open the closet and peered behind the closet door to raise an eyebrow at Matthew. His hair was wet from showering, but it never took long for his hair to dry, so it was still in that damp, clumpy phase. He was lucky his curls were more tame than Amelia’s. 

“Gil told me they were short-staffed tonight,” he said, not looking up from his phone. 

“I didn’t even say anything,” she replied, applying micellar water to a cotton pad. 

“Knew you’d ask,” 

“So, are we actually calling Dad and Papa back or…” 

“Ring ‘em up, eh?” 

“You.”

“Guess nobody is gonna call them,” he said with a forlorn sigh. 

“Guess so.”

Matthew stuck his tongue out at her. Amelia heard a ringing coming from his phone. She smirked before running to the bathroom to make sure she didn’t miss a spot. 

Meanwhile, Matthew occupied their parents. 

“It is good to see you nice and clean and dry, mon garçon,” Francis said. “Was your drive home smooth?” 

“Wasn’t bad,” Matthew replied. In the background, he heard the sound of a gas range oven and the crackle of something boiling. Francis was sitting in front of him, and someone was operating the stove; Matthew was suspicious. “What’re you cooking for dinner, Papa? I miss your food.” 

“We are having take-out,” he whispered into the receiver. Just then, the Englishman appeared from behind Francis and took a seat next to his husband. “Your father has blessed us with his wonderful cooking,” Francis said louder. “I am very excited about what he is planning.” 

“Good to see you, lad.” Arthur narrowed his eyes at the man next to him. “Say, where is Amelia? Don’t tell her this, but she looked like a raccoon with that bloody soot smeared on her face,” he laughed. 

Francis elbowed Arthur, obviously holding back a laugh, which was still evident on his breath. “Ça suffit! It was not soot, Arthur, it was mascara!” 

“I heard my name!” Amelia yelled from the bathroom. She zipped over to the couch and plopped herself down next to Matthew. “What are we talking about?”

“Nothing,” all three of them said in sync. 

“Sure…” Amelia crossed her arms. 

“I can’t talk for long,” Matthew said. “I promised Gil I’d make it into work tonight.”

“That’s quite all right, love,” Arthur assured. “I only wanted to see that my children are well.” 

Francis’ face soured. “Amor, do you smell something… something…”

“I haven’t a clue what you–oh–“ Arthur’s nose turned upward. “Oh for goodness–“

“Merde, Arthur, I think something is burning,” said Francis, who was gesturing over to the mushroom cloud of black smoke that arose from the kitchen. Both parents rushed over to the kitchen, curses spewing out of their mouths in English and French alike. 

“Uh, Dad?” said Matthew. 

“Papa? Is everything okay?” Amelia fretted. 

There was a blasting sound of the fire extinguisher and the slamming of window panes. Amelia and Matthew watched their fathers scramble to open the windows as soon as the fire was extinguished. Surely enough, Francis eventually picked up the phone, trying to hide a shit eating grin as he made eye contact with his husband. 

“Everything is just fine!” Arthur yelled to the kids. 

“I’ll order us something, mon amour, just sit down,” Francis spoke to the man, and pulled him into view of the camera. He turned to the camera. "Amélie, Matthieu, je t’aime.” 

“Love you, Papa,” said Matthew. “Love you, Dad, talk to you later.” 

“Bonne soirée,” said Francis before he hung up. 

Chapter Text

“Dobroye utro, Vanya,” Katyusha chirped like a morning rooster waking him up. “Would you mind helping me out by taking Natya to school this morning?” 

Between blurry fluttering of his eyelids, his eyes made out the stature of Katyusha standing at the foot of the bed, hand on the light switch. 

“What are you busy with?” he retorted, sleep tickling his throat. 

“I have errands. And you need to help with Natya, you are her brother, nyet?” Katyusha lectured. 

“Da, sestra. I will take her.” Ivan massaged his eyes, trying to get them to open and adjust for the day. He extended his jaw wide, letting out a long, dramatic yawn. 

“Careful, Ivanya,” Natalia teased, “You’ll catch flies.” She stood mischievously outside the door, peaking in. 

“Very funny.” He groggily sat up in bed and reached over to his nightstand, where his phone was charging. 

Ivan was not expecting a message from Toris first thing in the morning. It had been three days since they met at the bus stop, and since then, they haven’t messaged or crossed paths once. It was sometime around six in the morning, the sun had not yet fully risen, and it was cool for an August morning. Ivan set the phone back down. It was too early to be answering messages. 

“The sun is not up yet,” Ivan said. “I will have my coffee and then I will take you to school.”

“Sounds good.” Her tone was dismissive. 

There was a creaky wooden swing on his front porch that Ivan would lounge in for however long felt right. The swing was considerably old, but well-built. In some places, the wood had splintered, and paint had peeled off. Originally, the swing was a light powdery shade of blue, if he remembered correctly, but the hue had faded into an eggshell alabaster. The Russian shivered; the paint had been new when they moved in; it occurred to him that he had been away from his homeland for a really, really long time. That made his mind wander to places he did not want it to wander to. For instance, Natalia spoke English like an American, not a hint of an accent like her siblings. She even smiled like one, too. Ivan sighed. How did he get from chipped paint on a porch swing to his Americanized sestrenka?

A cigarette teetered up and down on Ivan’s lips until he got a flame on his nearly empty lighter. Cupping palms shielded at the flame as he leaned in to light the white part of the cigarette. Ivan took a long, deep inhale, letting his lungs ignite. A controlled warmth. In one hand, Ivan held his cigarette, and in the other, he held a white ceramic mug. He held his leg propped up and rested against the rail, gently swishing him to and fro. 

Ivan drank his coffee black, occasionally mixing it with vodka. He did so for two reasons: it was cheaper, but also because he clung to bitterness. Somehow, pleasantries like sugar and cream, congregation and rawness, laughter and beauty, put a hook in Ivan’s gut, thrusting him into foreign territory. Whether from mere weakness or the lack of inclination to climb, Ivan dwelled on the bottom rungs of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, and as far as he knew, he wouldn’t be advancing skyward anytime soon. 

Ivan had been running from the idea; he decided to lead his life the same as it began. Dark, cruel winters where the sun was a phantom hiding in the opera house, frigid nights that penetrated each blanket and cover piled on. The sparkling numbness of toes in snow-drenched boots. Dog bites– bee stings– the like. This was the character of Ivan Braginsky, through the lens of Ivan Braginsky. 

Unbeknownst to him, he did have an infinitesimal modicum of yearning for a great big sunny reprieve, even for just a second. Sadness pooled in Ivan’s gut, knowing that if a life of sunflower fields and radiating hearths confronted him, he would choose to run the other way, towards familiarity. He’d go to lengths impossible to conquer in the time it took for his legs to stop working to deny any possibility of unsmothering that persistent spark in his core. 

The cool morning breath ran its long, wispy fingers through Ivan’s ashen blond hair. It was a moment of meditation for the man. He closed his eyes and let his ears listen to the rustling of the leaves and the whispers of the wind. After taking another swig of his coffee, Ivan noticed it had gone cold, which meant it was time to go inside and begin another day. 

Ivan pressed the butt of his cigarette out on an ashtray. As he got up to go back inside, Katyusha appeared from the house. “Drive safely, Vanya. I am going now.”

“I will,” he promised. “Take care.”

He ambled back to his room and made his bed. Ivan picked his phone up from his nightstand, opening the messages app. Just as the notification had foretold, Toris had contacted him. 

In Russian, it read:

“Privet, Ivan, are you free tomorrow night, perchance?”

Ivan blinked at the message. Without much thought, he replied. 

“Da, I should be. Is everything alright with you?”  Ivan set his phone down, but it buzzed almost immediately after he lifted his hand. 

“Everything is good! I suppose I should follow up with another question: do you know how to play chess?”

“I am Russian, nyet?”

It was Ivan’s shoddy attempt at humor. For a moment, there were typing bubbles on his message screen. 

“Haha, I guess that is true. Would you like to join me for a get-together? A good friend of mine is hosting a chess club and asked that I bring a friend.”

Ivan blanched. It had been years, maybe an entire decade, since he had been invited to something. Sweat began to bead on his fingertips and palms. They shook a little; with excitement or fear, it was indistinguishable. 

“I will go with you.” 

What was Ivan to do? Decline? If General Winter discovered that his own flesh and blood had declined a chess match… Ivan shivered. 

“Very exciting, it is tomorrow night at six. Would you like to carpool?” 

“Da.”

The messages ended there. Ivan supposed it was time to get washed up and take his sister to school. Natalia attended a special school for gifted children. Meaning she could not ride ordinary buses like ordinary kids, which almost meant she was tossed around between whichever sibling could watch after her. However, Natalia was nearly fifteen, meaning soon she would be learning how to drive. Just thinking about it made Ivan’s heart do round-off back handsprings in his chest. Ivan readied his own school bag, deciding it would be wise to dedicate the day to working on his PhD Thesis. 

“Natya, are you ready?” Ivan hollered. There was no reply. “Natalia,” Ivan called from below the stairs. “Get down here.” 

“Nyet.” She walked past him and out the door. Ivan only rolled his eyes. Natalia was going through a phase. Katyusha was no longer allowed to braid her hair, so her hair was often pulled back in loose braids or– what infuriated Katyusha the most– a ponytail on the top of her head. Today, she chose to pull her thick platinum hair into a ponytail that perched high up on her cranium. She refused to tuck her shirt into her school uniform, and what is possibly the worst part, she seemed completely disinterested in her studies. At this rate, she would reject her nickname, Natya, which Ivan wasn’t sure he could handle. 

“Teenagers,” he grumbled. If only his sisters were half as scared by him as his peers were. Ivan followed Natalia to his car. “You know how Katya feels about those hairstyles,” Ivan said. “Not very protective, you will ruin your beautiful hair.”

“I’m not worried.” There was a crack of bubble gum that came from Natalia’s mouth. Ivan’s fists clenched. The sun was beginning to rise; to his pleasure, he caught Natalia watching it intently. His sestrenka was in there somewhere. His eye caught something white sticking out of her leather backpack; it was a piece of paper. 

“What is this?” he asked. He swiftly grabbed the paper from her bag. Natalia did a 180, swinging violently to see what he grabbed. 

“Ivan,” she snarled and reached for the paper, but he held it well above her reach. In English, she said, “Give me that!”

“You are not passing notes in class, are you, Natya?” Ivan teased her back in Russian. His face quickly fell as he read the contents of the paper. “Natalia,” Ivan’s voice plummeted several octaves. 

She refused to meet his eyes. It was a report card, and by Ivan’s reaction, it wasn’t pretty. 

“You are not so sneaky or clever. Hiding this…this is a very stupid thing you tried to do. Just wait until Katyusha finds out about this.” He gripped the paper and waved it at her angrily. “After all she has done for us, you will not repay her by failing!” 

“I am trying, Van– Ivan,” she squeaked out sullenly in Russian. “I do not belong at that school; I am not smart enough.”

“Do not say that!” Ivan was taken aback, frozen in shock. He paused to look at her. She hugged herself, grasping her elbows and looking down at her shoes, her humiliation evident in her furrowed brow and pouting lips. Ivan knelt before his sister and looked up at Natalia, forcing her eyes to look at him. “Natalia, look at me.”

“Do not look at me.” She was reluctant, her eyes meeting for a second before looking away. She covered her face. “I am embarrassed. I will try harder.” 

“I’m most upset that you didn’t tell me you were struggling,” he said tenderly. Natalia and Katyusha were the only people in his life he could speak to this way. Ivan scanned over the report card. “You really only need help in math, it seems… Calculus?”

“Da, that is correct.” 

“I will find a tutor for you,” Ivan said as if it were final. “Easy.”

Natalia looked down at her brother. Despite being a savant at being antisocial, she appreciated his compassion at moments like this. “You are full of shit. We cannot afford that.”

“I will find a way. Now go get in the car.”

—

Amelia smoothed out the spaghetti straps of her dress and twirled in the mirror. She dressed in a dark green floral dress. A color which she didn’t really care for. On her feet, she wore her usual black Mary Janes and legwarmers. Amelia clipped silver hoops onto her ears and applied some pink strawberry-colored lip gloss. In place of her star-shaped hairclips, she wore two sparkly silver barettes. Backing up, her dress flowed like it was a butterfly catching a breeze. After several failed attempts to make her hair cooperate into an updo, her arms became sore, and she decided to leave her hair up to fate. 

That’s right, baby, Amelia F. Jones had a date. 

“Mattie!” she yelled. 

“What?” he yelled back.

“What time is it?”

“Time for you to get a watch!” 

“Mattie!”

“What?”

“Fuck you!”

Amelia zoomed out of her room, down the hall to look for her phone. The house smelled of apples and cinnamon, and several candles flickered, wafting the scent in her direction. Jazz was playing on the record player near the window. Her eyes fixated on the digital clock on the oven.

7:30

“Okay,” she breathed. “I’ve got time.” She found her phone sitting atop the counter. “Mattie, you know these candles make me miss Dad and Papa.” She frowned. Once they’re lit, she can’t just blow them out. 

“They make the house more… homey…” Matthew stepped out of the hallway bathroom, combing his hair. He donned his black work trousers and a white hoodie with the tee pulled over it, in bold twisty lettering, it read Gil’s Pub on the front. The comb ran easily through his locks, but always seemed to get stuck on one unruly curl that he could never seem to tame. Matthew’s eyes narrowed at his sister, dragging up and down. “You’re dressed fancy.” He observed. 

“Yeah… I lost a bet,” she said, typing away on her phone. “Vargas will be over in fifteen.” 

“Which one?”

“Feliciano.”

Matthew shrugged as if to say, It could be worse, and laughed. “A bet? So what, now you have to go on a date with him.”

Pink dusted Amelia’s cheeks. “It’s a long story… well, not really. Just embarrassing.” 

“I’d say I have time to listen, but I really don’t,” Matthew said as he lathered toothpaste onto his toothbrush. 

Amelia rolled her eyes. An early knock echoed on the other side of the door. Amelia jerked her head over to the door and rushed over to it. She put her eye up to the peephole and there stood Feliciano Vargas, almost ten minutes earlier than he was supposed to arrive. 

Matthew spat the toothpaste into the sink and commented, “That wasn’t fifteen minutes.”

“He’s early,” Amelia said matter-of-factly. 

“I thought he was Italian,” Matthew joked. “Must be excited to see you.” 

Amelia weakly smiled. “Good one.” She clung to her clutch purse.

“Bon courage, ma sœur,” Matthew teased. 

Amelia glared at him. Bon courage was more of an insult to Feliciano. Feliciano was a friend. Contrary to popular belief, Amelia was not at all experienced in romance. Her specialty was making friends, not partners. Sweaty palms turned the knob, and she stepped outside to greet the man. 

“Good evening, Amelia, you look stunning tonight!” he held out his hand. That made Amelia smile, bringing her hand up to her cheek to feel the warmth. Feliciano’s hand waited until she accepted it, and just then did he lean forward to press his lips to the back of her palm. Amelia playfully chuckled at his gesture; it was something he did to almost every woman he met, her included. 

“It’s great to see you, too! And you’re looking sharp yourself!” She squeezed his hand, praying to any deity that could hear that Feliciano couldn’t tell her hands were sweaty. The night she first met Feliciano, he pulled the kissing-the-hand stunt, and it caught Amelia so off guard that she embarrassed the poor man by screaming and pulling away, wiping her hand on her pants with a big “eeeww” coming from her lips. Later, she learned that Feliciano simply loved women, which she understood. Francis was also fond of women before settling down with her father. “May I ask where we’re going tonight, Feli?” 

“No, you may not,” he replied jovially. “It is a surprise, signorina.” 

“In that case,” Amelia paused. “Is my dress appropriate for the occasion?”

Feliciano turned, scanning her like a TSA agent, with delight gleaming in his eye.“You look perfect for the occasion, do not worry.” 

Amelia blushed and pivoted her head to the side, trying to keep her face from his view. After clearing her throat, she spoke, “Thanks, Feli. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t overdressed.” She muttered the last part so Feliciano couldn’t hear it.

The pair ambled down the sidewalk that led to the driveway, Feliciano admiring the landscaping her fathers had put so much money into. The sidewalk was rather twisty, but they had a vision for it anyway. The majority of their flowerbeds consisted of perennials, as they were much lower maintenance. A kaleidoscope of snapdragons was perennial in her part of the country, along with a sea of brilliant purple salvias that surrounded the snapdragons. There were brilliant yellow English rose bushes that sat in front of each window. 

Francis had reasoned that since the bushes were thorny, they provided an added layer of protection to the home. Arthur promptly disagreed, as he usually did, but deep down appreciated the thought, despite secretly hating the color. In massive wooden planters, her fathers settled on planting annuals. Vivacious rose colored begonias were slowly losing their color, beginning their descent into death with autumn underway.  

Amelia nearly dropped her purse, her face engulfed in hellfire. “Feliciano… what the hell is this?” 

“What is the matter?” He cried, swiftly bobbing his head over to Amelia’s shocked expression. 

“Is… no, is this…” Amelia orbited the vehicle, her eyes tracing over the flawless bodywork. “Is this a Maserati– like the car– a sports car?” She didn’t dare put a finger on the car, but eyeing the Trident logo on the front, she deduced it was a proper 2003 Maserati Coupe. 

“Oh…” He froze, looking over the car that was worth more than all of Amelia and Feliciano’s organs on the black market, combined. Blithely, he threw his head back like he encountered a hilarious misunderstanding. “I suppose it is!” He was holding the door open for Amelia. She simply shook her head and accepted his chivalry, even though it would have affronted her under normal circumstances. 

Amelia had known the Vargases were wealthy. They exuded old money, inherited names that originated from aristocracy; nothing like the classless faux parvenu-ness of Amelia’s multi-national family. Almost everyone in Amelia’s family had a different surname. Jones, Kirkland, Bonnefoy, Williams. They were not descendants of nobility with expansive lines of tradition and wealth, nor did they have nearly the amount of money the Vargases did. The Vargases were Italian, almost like the embodiment of Italy itself. They loved leisure, good food, and comfort. 

Once Amelia asked her uncle Antonio how the Vargas’ made their money– since it seemed they weren’t the kind who worked hard, or at all. Antonio told her not to ask a question like that. 

Feliciano drove downtown, and the entire time, he was talking about the restaurant he had chosen. So much for being surprised; Thankfully, Amelia didn’t mind much. She only hoped it wasn’t too expensive, despite knowing the Vargas’ had more money than they knew what to do with, she had trouble accepting that things she did not work for.

Upon arriving, Amelia surveyed the area from the passenger’s seat window. “Y’know, I’m pretty… erm, nouveau riche, yeah? And greatly lacking in the riche…” 

Feliciano pulled into a parking spot and promptly turned off the engine. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

Amelia’s face reddened. “I’m just saying if I don’t speak any vieux-riche, you know. I… I don’t know what wine goes with what, if you catch my drift. I didn’t go to prep school.” Her eyes diverted from his, mostly because it was a partial lie. Amelia wasn’t familiar with the ways of the sickeningly wealthy, but her father was a licensed sommelier. The example was primarily to demonstrate that Feliciano and Amelia were from different worlds. Feliciano might have picked up on her lie if he had thought about it for more than a second, however.

Would Amelia’s French father seriously never teach her how to drink wine? Yes, Amelia had picked up on some taboos, recalling a time when she was younger, her French father asked her English father to pick up some wine to pair with tilapia. All hell broke loose when Arthur arrived home with a bottle of Pinot Noir, exclaiming that tilapia is a white meat and therefore was acceptable to eat with red wine. Arthur was wrong, of course. Tilapia was still fish before white meat, like turkey or duck. Francis, ever eager to make the best out of a situation, used it as an excuse to open the three-hundred-dollar bottle of Dom Pérignon champagne and save the Pinot Noir for next week.

Amelia was fourteen at the time, so she didn’t care, nor hardly remember the interaction. Years before that infamous debacle, Francis let her borrow a sip of his Merlot once, and it was enough to turn her off to wine. Amelia had “borrowed” it because after the bitterness touched her tongue, she promptly spit the wine back into the glass, much to her father’s chagrin. Alcohol never crossed Amelia’s mind in her youth. That is, until she turned twenty-one and learned the true magic of alcohol wasn’t in the taste. 

“I will order for you, my dear, do not worry,” Feliciano assured. 

Amelia shifted in her seat, unwilling to give her opinion. Feliciano stepped out of the car and rushed to Amelia’s side before she could even open it herself, as if he knew she was going to try to climb out of the car herself.  

Feliciano held out his arm, indicating Amelia to curl her arm in his, and she did. The scent of his expensive cologne filled her nose, reminding her of Feli’s strange ability to recognize luxury fragrances. Years ago, Amelia had received a 2.5-ounce vial of Gucci Rush perfume from her boyfriend, and without even knowing she owned the fragrance, Feliciano recalled the scent and asked her if it was what she was wearing. Finding that ability to be a little strange, Amelia only wore the kind of perfume that wasn’t locked behind a case in the stores from that point on. 

“Good evening, what is the name on the reservation?” The host greeted Feliciano. 

“Vargas.” 

The host’s demeanor shifted, standing taller and smiling. He scanned a black leather booklet that was flattened on the podium for half a second, like it was muscle memory rather than actually looking for anything. 

“Aha, I see, right this way, sir.” 

Amelia glanced up at Feliciano, studying his lax posture and the mundane expression on his face. The host pulled the chair out for her to sit. The table was a round wooden table covered with a white drape. An oil lamp flickered in the middle, adding a romantic aura that Amelia felt out of place in. Feliciano fell into his seat and grinned. The host dropped two menus in front of them and told them their server would be with them soon.

“What do you think, eh?” 

“Feli, it’s beautiful.” She said, “I was not expecting this at all. When I said I’d agree to a date, I assumed you’d take me to see a movie or something.” Amelia compulsively twirled her hair in her fingers before catching herself breaking the etiquette. 

“I hope I’m not bringing you too much outside your comfort zone,” Feliciano said. 

“I mean, my papa loves restaurants like this, but…” Amelia flipped the menu open and glanced down at the price. Her stomach churned. “We don’t go very often… or ever. Sometimes my papa and father go without me and Mattie.” Amelia subconsciously knew that her lack of excitement about this date was a catalyst for her discomfort. 

“Say, maybe on our next date, you can choose where we go, no?”  

Amelia laughed and tried to make it quiet, but the idea was just so funny. She hadn’t agreed to a second date, but he was already planning it. Feliciano was smiling, but not laughing with her. Amelia’s face fell, shit, he’s serious, she thought. 

“Oh… yeah!” She exclaimed. “I’m already full of ideas!” 

Just then, a server appeared with a tray of water. “Good evening, my name is Sarah, and I’ll be your server tonight. Do you two know what you would like to order?” 

“We will be having the smoked salmon, and… out of curiosity, what is your house white wine like?” 

The server stiffened and gently smiled. “If you’re looking for a good pairing for smoked salmon, I highly recommend the Chandon Brut Rosé. But, if you simply want a glass of wine with your meal, and are not looking for a suitable pairing, the house white wine is a Sauvignon Blanc and Semillon; it is crisp and medium-bodied with hints of citrus and peach, sourced from France.”

Amelia blinked. She remembered her father mentioning that house wine was wine that the restaurant purchases in bulk, meaning it was often cheaper than other wines, however, not necessarily of lower quality. The wine the restaurant chose, by proxy, sets the tone for the restaurant – it becomes the voice of the restaurant, an audition to the customer, trying to get the lead role in the customer’s favorite restaurant. Feliciano had chosen the rosé. 

“I just remembered, I had already tried the house wine,” Feliciano chuckled after the server left. 

Amelia was glad Feliciano had chosen the wine because it was delicious and paired perfectly with the food he chose. Perhaps the sommelier was to thank, but the point was, Amelia had indulged a smidge more than she should. At the beginning of the dinner, she was conscious of the volume of her voice and the placement of her arms, but after three glasses, the lightweight she was, her mind was no longer concerned with her laugh and the grace of her limbs. She wasn’t drunk, per se, but her inhibitions had been greatly reduced. 

“Feliciano, we are a million percent going on another date,” she found herself saying as he guided her up to her doorstep. 

“That makes me very happy to hear!” Feliciano elated. “I am so glad you had a good time!” 

The two of them stood at the door. Feliciano looked down at Amelia’s flushed face. Amelia looked up, and for a moment, there was a hitch in her throat. Feliciano leaned down, so his face was centimeters away from her face, he eyed her lips, and they hovered for a second, matching scents of wine on their tongue lingering between them. Felicano was getting closer. 

“Slow down there, cowboy,” Amelia pressed her palm to his face, his lips kissing, this time, the front of her hand. “It’s just the first date.” Her mind began to sober just slightly, and she remembered that she had agreed to a second one. “It was only supposed to be one, so maybe you’ll get lucky next time.” 

“Aha, it would be like a dream,” Feliciano said. 

“Hey!” she jolted. “Tomorrow I’m hosting a chess club; you can bring Lovino.” 

“I have no idea how to play chess,” he admitted, sparing any disappointment from his voice. “But I will show up to see you.” He took her hands in his. 

Amelia retreated her hands and placed one on his shoulder, squeezing it lightly. “Okay, perfect, I can teach you the ropes! Just arrive around 6 tomorrow. Be prepared to meet some new people.” 

“I look forward to it.” 

“And bring Lovino!” She said before disappearing into the house. 

Chapter Text

From the window, pink and blue met on the horizon, the falling sun leaving a blushed hue on the cold-toned home of the Braginskys. Ivan was sitting at the dinner table, a half-finished puzzle being tinkered with by Natalia, who bobbed up and down in her seat in front of him. Ivan prepared a small pot of borscht, a Ukrainian recipe that Katyusha had learned when they were children. It simmered on the stove while Ivan scanned through some documents he held between his fingers. It wasn’t long before Katyusha had appeared through the door with the sound of a bell Natalia had tied to the edge. It rang as Katyusha entered. 

“Privyet, I am home–oh!” She took a deep breath through her nose. “Vanya, did you make my favorite?”

“Da, I did.” He set his papers down and looked over to Natalia, who was still messing around with the jigsaw puzzle. “Natya, would you mind getting us all a bowl?”

Natalia glared, eyeing a folded-up paper that Ivan had tucked deep into his pockets. There would be no hope of pick-pocketing Ivan for her. She grunted and left aggressively for the kitchen. 

“What is her problem?” Katyusha asked, taking a seat at the table. 

Ivan wordlessly batted his eyelashes at the fleeing teen. His hands reached into his pocket and unfolded the crumpled report card that he’d snatched from Natalia’s bag. He pressed it onto the surface of the table, smoothing out the bar graphs and numbers printed on the paper, and slid it over to Katyusha as subtly as possible, as if he were negotiating the price of a new car at a dealership. The siblings exchanged knowing glances as Katyusha picked up the paper. Upon laying eyes on it, she let out a sigh. “Natechka…” Her voice was murky, and her tone was so hushed, Ivan almost missed it. “When is this from?”

“It is from her standardized tests last year. Her school does quarterly assessments.”

“I see… it is just an assessment, then.” She glowered over the length of the report. Ivan was grateful he had his older sister to confide in. The tension that was building in his shoulder dissipated; it felt like rubber bands were crushing his skull all day, and they finally snapped, letting the blood flow. 

“If she doesn’t maintain a certain level, she will be kicked from the program,” Ivan said. “I will be in search of a tutor for her.” He chewed nervously on the inside of his cheek. The normally still legs attached to Ivan were fidgeting, just enough to cause the table to tremor. 

“Are you concerned about how we are paying for that?” Katyusha asked the question he was dreading.

His eyes were fixed on the paper in her hands. His lips parted, staying that way for a second. “We– I will figure something out.”

“I have been–” Katyusha began. Natalia returned with a tray in her hand, atop which she balanced three bowls of beet-red soup. Katyusha stiffened her smile and shoved the report card into her pocket. “Oh, it smells delicious, let’s eat!”

With his appetite diminished, Ivan took a couple of bites to appease his sisters and pushed the soup around the bowl until they had finished. Afterward, Ivan was sitting on the porch, lounging in the swing, with a cigarette in between his fingers. 

—

The first thing Amelia did Saturday morning was send the text out to everyone she had invited. 

Chess tonight! Bring some friends with you!!!! <33

Her eyes stared at the message for a long second before she sat up in bed and yanked a blue satin bonnet from off her head. After she hoisted herself out of bed, her feet pattered down the hall to the living room, where she put a Prince vinyl on the record player; his voice hummed out in a quiet volume, careful not to play it too loud. She jumped in the shower and was forced to blow-dry her hair on the opposite side of the house. She lathered the proper products in her hair, and after it was all dried, she threw on a white button-down and a tweed skirt with dark sheer tights underneath. 

Matthew was still dead asleep from his shift last night, meaning, to be considerate, she tiptoed around his room and vigorously withdrew thick flaxen drapes to let in the rising sunlight. The sun brilliantly hit a collection of crystal and glass suncatchers that Amelia had collected over the course of completing her Bachelor’s degree. Rainbows scattered across the surfaces of her home. Fractals of color decorate the countertops, rugs, furniture, and walls. She slid the windows open, letting the cool morning air ventilate and cleanse her home. Morning sparrows and finches sang from outside, complementing the rustle of leaves and the high-pitched melody of Prince in the background.

Despite not arriving home until ten and not falling asleep until sometime past midnight, she was an early riser at heart and would wake up at six-thirty in the morning regardless of how late her bedtime was the night prior. There was nothing that a freshly brewed pot of coffee couldn’t fix, at least that was a motto in her household. 

Since she was expecting guests, Amelia made sure all of the dishes were washed, laundry was folded, floors mopped, rugs vacuumed, and every surface was wiped down. Eventually, all of the commotion of housework had awoken Matthew. He stumbled out of his bedroom, with a look so disheveled that he resembled an elderly sick dog in blue plaid pajama pants. 

He stood motionless in the hall, eyes crusted and narrowed, waiting for Amelia to acknowledge him. 

“Mornin’,” Amelia chimed. The song “Raspberry Beret” played behind her, like a symphony of angels bringing forth the birth of a goddess. Matthew only glared, heading straight for the bathroom.  

Carrying on, Amelia decided today was dedicated to working on her homework before it piled up. Tuesday was creeping nearer, and shit would be getting real: she’d be giving out homework; it was imperative she get ahead of the game before it picked up. 

“I smell coffee,” Matthew croaked through the sound of bristles against his teeth. 

“Help yourself.” 

Matthew did just that. With a mug of scalding coffee, Matthew poured maple syrup from a glass jug and let it pour for a solid ten seconds. Amelia could only wince at the imagined sweetness. He walked over to the record player and turned the volume dial 90° to the right. “Love this song.” He said, as “Let’s Go Crazy” began to vibrate throughout the house. 

“Were you able to get Gil for chess tonight?” Amelia inquired.

Matthew raised a brow at her. “You realize he owns a bar… and it’s Saturday night, right?” He sipped the coffee, his eyes peeking up at her over the rim of his mug, taking in her ebullient, broad smile.  

“He can delegate,” Amelia surmised. 

“I’m lucky I can even make it,” Matthew replied with an asynchronous roll of his shoulders.

Amelia sighed. Bars on Saturdays were war zones, she knew that. So many people that the dance floor colonizes the entire venue, so everyone is breathing down each other’s necks with their hot, alcoholic breath. What’s more, everyone is drunk, so they don’t even care. Amelia shivered. She loved partying as much as the next guy, but last time she went to a bar on a Saturday, her friend was roofied and she had to lug her sleepy body to the emergency room. Gil’s was a relatively under-the-radar sports bar type of establishment, though, but that didn’t mean they had the staff for it.

“I guess we’ll see,” Amelia said. “Got any plans for today?” 

“Teaching a piano lesson later. Roderich has been scheduling me a lot lately.” Matthew lathered peanut butter onto a piece of toast. “And then chess night! Who all did you invite?”

“Uhh…” Amelia looked up as if to think. “You, Toris, Feliciano, Lovino, Dr. Honda… and Mathias. I think. But Dr. Honda didn’t seem like he wanted to come. Also, Felicano said he doesn’t know how to play, but I told everyone to bring as many people as they can, so the turnout should be good.” 

“You invited the professor you’re working for?”

“We’re friends! I think…?”

“Never change, Lia.” Matthew threw his head back, brimming with amusement. “Although I am a little surprised you invited Mathias.”

“It shouldn’t surprise you.”

Matthew shrugged. “You’re right. If it were anyone else… that would be a different story.”

“I do have a busy day ahead of me.” Amelia pivoted; she packed her school bag, sliding her laptop and various folders into different slots. “Besides the housework and the chess club stuff, I actually need to run to the library today, I have some things I need to print, and, ugh, stuff to grade.” Her posture fell. “Not to mention, my own stupid classes.”

“What kind of classes do you even take for astrophysics?” Matthew wondered out loud. “It seems like you already know everything.” 

Amelia bore two massive, strenuous, deadpan eyes at him; a million thoughts and emotions flashed across her face. “The more you learn, Mattie, the less you know.” 

Matthew flinched. “That was profound.” 

“Most of it is like physics stuff,” she eloquently elaborated.

“I see.” 

“You'd better be home at 6 tonight,” she warned. Amelia slung her bag over her shoulder. 

Licking peanut butter from his fingertips, Matthew hummed in response. He swallowed. “I’ll be here, early, probably. Can’t let Feli take my parking spot.” 

“That’s the spirit!” 

People often have a lot of adjectives and nouns they may use for Amelia, but a word that described her best was “bibliophile”. For Amelia, the library was her home away from home. Whenever she missed her parents, she went to the library. Whenever she had a nasty breakup, she went to the library. Whenever she performed poorly on a test, she would go to the library. Whenever she aced a test, she went to the library. 

Perhaps it was the scent of books and wisdom being exchanged freely among her fellow students and educators. It could also be the serene atmosphere of public agreement to courtesy. The sense of community surrounding the promotion of events and gatherings had also touched Amelia's heart since she was young. In high school, Matthew and her parents always knew where to find her if she forgot to tell them where she went. 

When Amelia began attending college, her safe space at the library became a holy cathedral, like it were protected by Athena herself. The modern Baghdad House of Wisdom is available to her. The unthinkable, a library that was open 24 hours a day. It seemed too good to be true. Arthur had joked they didn’t even need to pay for a dorm because she would be spending so much time in the library. 

Amelia had already spent two hours at the library today, working on her homework for her early universe physics class. Judging by the syllabus, Amelia anticipated this class would be a pleasant challenge. Another three hours were dedicated to grading and miscellaneous errands required by her master’s program. 

On a typical study day, Amelia spent a whopping eight hours in the library, but with the chess club looming over her day, she felt too excited to truly retain any information. Amelia pulled up the PDF file that held her invitation handouts. It was a flashy presentation she had worked on for a whole week before approving. She sent a dozen copies to be printed and packed her belongings. 

The printer began to chug out invitations for her chess club. She took the warm stack of paper into her hands. Amelia’s shoulders fell as soon as she saw it. Despite designing a flyer with some sense of color to it, the pages were printed by the machine in black and white ink. Black words that read “CHESS CLUB” with the date and time written in finer letters underneath. Under the words, there was a black and white checkered pattern, with a random assortment of chess pieces.

Fortuitous for her, chess only really needed two colors. Her eyes traced over the vapid character of the paper, reluctant to capitulate to the limitations of public printers. The invitation was indisputably dull. She hadn’t intended for the invitations to be plastered on campus, at least not yet. They were made to be handouts for the guests her friends brought, but that didn’t mean she wanted them to be so painfully boring. 

Adjacent to the printer she was using, there was something that twinkled an alluring, luminous violet in the top corner of her vision, tearing her eyes away from the dull pamphlet. Amelia was slow to recognize the stranger; his face was far from her level. Although his eyes enchanted her, his expression was tame and benign, but manifested the forlorn essence of stale saltine crackers and flat soda. 

The familiar contours of his face settled in her mind like an equation she had solved before. She’d seen the man once or twice; a snow-kissed complexion, statuesque altitude which he stood, and the unforgettable, inscrutably enigmatic eyes reminding her of the core of a serrated amethyst geode. He had a face that you didn’t find carved into marble statues; his nose stood tall on his face, making it a prominent landmark. Although some might be turned away by such a feature, Amelia found it a bit handsome. His ashen blond hair hugged the sides of his face; the locks were soft and feathery, and she noticed how well-groomed the man was for an academic. It was that history instructor. 

“Ivan, right?” She addressed with a welcoming smile. “How’s it goin’, next-door neighbor?” As Amelia got closer, she found herself almost dazed by his height. His shoulders were broad, revealing his incredible wingspan without even needing to lift an arm. 

The man lazily pulled his eyes away from what he was doing and scrunched his nose upon seeing her. “Emily…was that your name?” The man shuffled in his shoes. He looked away, as if his mouth was on the back of his head. 

“Amelia! You almost had it! You’d be surprised how often that happens, though.” She tilted her head and smiled sideways at him. “I was hoping I’d see you around campus sometime. I was totally gonna compliment your scarf, but you ran off so fast! I guess that’s the perk of having legs so long!” she laughed. “Do you knit? That scarf looks handmade!”

Ivan swallowed and wet his lips. It looked like that scarf was choking him with how his face flushed. For some reason, he declined to make eye contact, but that didn’t ward Amelia off one bit. He cleared his throat. “My sister made it.” 

Amelia’s heart melted. She brought her hands up to her chest and sighed. “That’s so freaking adorable, Ivan! If I made my brother a scarf, he’d probably use it to check the oil in the car or something!” she laughed again at her own joke. It never dawned on her that she was doing most of the talking. 

“You’re being… loud. We are in a library.” Ivan whispered bluntly. 

Amelia’s face flushed red with embarrassment. His remark was preposterous in its nature; Amelia, of all people, knew libraries and library ettiquette. “Oh gosh, you’re right.” She lowered her voice. “Hey, I’ll get out of your hair,” she said, “but one more thing…”

Ivan knitted his brow. “Yes?”

Amelia leafed through her chess club flyers and held them close to her as she spoke. “You can totally decline if you’re busy or whatever, but I was just wondering if you would be interested in coming to my place, some friends of mine are trying to start up a–” 

Ivan cut her off. “No.” He said it curtly, as if he was telling her that the sky was blue. 

She put her hands up in a surrender after quickly shoving the flyer into her bag. “Oh, that’s fine! I totally get it–”

“Do you?” Ivan’s scathing words cut her off again. 

“Well…” Amelia recoiled, her lips fumbling over words she forgot how to use. She took a step back, unsure how to reply. “Uh…”

“You and I are not friends.” He wielded the words like a bloodied club lined with barbed wire. “We are strangers. I do not know why you came up to me like this.” His accent must have become thicker when he was angry… or flustered or whatever this was. It took Amelia a few seconds to read any hint of contempt in his words. For a moment, she heard a note of innocuous confusion, which was easy to interpret with his soft voice and conservative volume. What was all the stranger was how quiet Ivan spoke, while the volume of his cruelty was so loud. 

Blood rushed loudly in her ears, but before she could retort, Ivan had already walked off, with his blush colored scarf waving like a flag behind him. At least he was kind enough not to shoulder check me to the moon, Amelia sardonically quipped in her head. The picture of knocking into her, sending her flying off into the atmosphere, flashed behind her eyes. At least she could find humor in such a belligerent encounter. Amelia turned on her heel, surprised to find Ivan was nowhere to be seen. 

The peculiar event nagged on her mind more than it normally would. She drove home, trying her best not to think of how she felt. A lingering sting hovered in her chest. The scene replayed in her head, each time looking for something she said that might have offended him, but it was fruitless. Maybe he was just in a bad mood, she excused. 

—

Ribbons of tension wrapped tightly around his core, pinching his stomach and herniating his intestines. Ivan’s palms were slick; he dragged them over the fabric of his pants before fiddling with the hem of his scarf, hands behind his back. 

The TA was like the sun, beaming in your vision during highway traffic. He felt like he was the only person on a stage, and the TA was pointing a spotlight directly into his eyes. Fists balled, his nails digging into the skin of his palms. It was too much for him— she was too much for him. It left him breathless and flailing, and out of control. Grasping for an exit, he harnessed a sour cruelty within that he had let curdle with age. What satisfaction could this woman get from speaking to him? It made absolutely zero sense to him. 

“You and I are not friends,” Ivan found himself speaking before thoroughly approving the words. Venom dribbled from his lips. “We are strangers. I do not know why you came up to me like this.” 

A dark part of Ivan expected to feel gratification when she paused, finally she shut her mouth, and learned you can’t make friends with everyone. Instead, Ivan made the mistake of looking down at her. Instantly, his heart faltered, nails retracting from his skin as his hands eased. The TA sputtered, jaw bobbing up and down. Her smile didn’t quite fall, but flashed into a languid grin that seemed to be held up by an invisible rope. 

Her eyes clouded over with astonishment, her lips parted to speak. It was the face of someone with endless patience and determination on behalf of other people. It made him sick. His legs moved before his mind had the sense to backtrack, and he fled, taking himself as far away from her as he possibly could. 

His legs carried him far and fast, cutting through crowds with ease as he rushed towards his car. As soon as the TA was out of sight, Ivan pressed the center of his chest for fear his heart would spring out of his chest and begin beating on the linoleum tile of the library. He could at least breathe a sigh of relief knowing that he no longer had to worry about her trying that again. 

Ivan had wished that she had decided to call him an asshole and storm off before he cowardly scurried away. Something resembling, elucidating anger festered in his abdomen. It would be so much easier if she were just the smallest bit vindictive. Ivan had never encountered someone he felt was either so cruelly duplicitous or outstandingly eccentric.

If Ivan were more inclined to speak with her, he would have said he did not want to be dragged into whatever silly antics a silly American woman would be up to. It was improper to be so amiable with people you didn’t know. Agitation lingered, prickling under Ivan’s skin just thinking about the obnoxious, air-headed, garrulous– felicitous– no, not felicitous, facetious, woman. 

It occurred to Ivan he wasn’t merely walking back to his car; he was storming there. Feet heavily collided with the pavement. If Ivan didn’t know it before, he knew it now: he did not like that TA, that stupid TA whose name he had already forgotten, and he was certain his life would be just fine if he’d never seen her again. 

Katyusha couldn’t stop smiling when Ivan’s car pulled into the carport. Ivan saw her waving from the kitchen window. Either something was very good or very, very bad. What really put Ivan on edge was the fact that she decided to meet him outside on the porch before he arrived inside. 

“Vanya, come,” she beckoned him onto the porch. Her short hair was pushed back in a wide blue headband, and she smelled of beef stock and boiled vegetables. 

“What is wrong?” He asked immediately, gripping the handle of his bag tighter. 

Her smile fell, and she rolled her eyes. “Nothing is wrong, I have good news!”

“You worry me, Katya; that smile was creepy.”  

“I have an interview for another job,” she grinned widely, her voice rang up an octave or two higher than normal. She sat down on the porch swing and rested her arm on the frayed wooden back. “At a pub, for the night shift.”

Ivan went rigid, slowly turning his head to face Katyusha. “What?” He said. 

“I have an int–“

“Yes,” he said breathlessly. “I heard you.” His tone was troubled, as if he were speaking through stagnant air. He dropped his bag beside the blue siding of the house and moved his hands to place on both of her shoulders. “Why on earth would you consider another job?” 

“So we can get a tutor for Natya,” she said, pushing his hands off. “Plus, she is getting a little too big for that school uniform. I want to spoil her a bit.” 

Ivan shook his head, slowly. “Nyet, nyet, you will not take another job.” 

“But Vanya–“ 

“That is final,” he said. “You work enough as is; it is I who will take up another job.” 

“During your studies, that is absurd!” 

“It is nothing, I have plenty of time.” Ivan was not going to win this fight. Katyusha was older, anyway; she usually got the final say unless Ivan made an irrefutably compelling point. The "point" Ivan was grasping at was hardly substantial and acutely refutable.

“Do not make me laugh.” 

“Katya, listen–“

“Hm. Nyet, it is my turn. We will compromise. I take a part-time job, you take a part-time job. Whoever, as they say, ‘crashes and burns’ first will quit. Sound good?”

There was a substantial pause between them. Ivan glanced down at his sister, who carelessly swung back and forth on the porch swing, and decided to join her. “Nyet.” Ivan eventually answered. “But I will accept.” 

“That makes me happy, Ivanya,” she said. “Now, I have solyanka bubbling on the stove. I suggest we have a good meal and mention none of this to Natya.” 

“Ah, yes. I am joining Toris for a game of chess tonight,” he mentioned, almost forgetting about the arrangement he made. “We are riding together. He will arrive soon.”

“I haven’t seen Toris in–“ she paused. “Oh my, it has been since our time under one roof. We were such little children. I am surprised he recognized you!” Katyusha pressed her hands to her cheeks, like she was trying to stop the air of fondness from diffusing into the world. 

“Yes, he is doing very well now. Tall, healthy. Much better than he used to be.”

“We should invite him over for dinner sometime,” she suggested. “Has he mentioned those brothers of his?” 

“Nyet…” Ivan said despondently. 

From behind them, the door opened, and Natalia stood, looking down at her siblings who lounged on the porch swing. She had the sleeves of her white button-down rolled up around her elbows. Her ashen hair was out of any hairstyle, falling around her shoulders and back, and her face was worn from a long day at school. Even so, there was a slight softening of her eyes when they fell upon Katyusha and Ivan. She opened her mouth to speak. It was in English. “The solyanka is going to burn.” 

“That is our cue,” Katyusha said, lightly pushing her elbow into Ivan’s side. 

“Da.” 

That evening, at around five, Toris had arrived at his house, just as planned. He pulled up in a black sedan while Ivan was finishing the last embers of his cigarette. He rocked back and forth on the swing, letting the nicotine stimulate his brain when Toris rolled down his window. 

“You didn’t forget, did you?” Toris said. His arm rested on the window, leaning his head out. 

“Nyet, I did not.” Ivan put out his cigarette and disposed of it on the ashtray. He joined Toris on the passenger’s side and buckled himself in. “I hope your friend is good at chess, because I do not want to beat him too quickly.”

Toris couldn’t help but grin. Oh, Ivan was in for a treat. “I have only played against her a couple of times, and she is also very skilled. It is hard to say if she would be better than you, though.”

Ivan did not want to admit that he was initially bemused by the use of the pronoun she. It was not unthinkable for a woman to be good at chess, not by a long shot; however, many environments that allow men to flourish in the chess community are rather inhospitable to women, which discourages them from fulfilling their full potential. A large portion of chess players are, for lack of a better term, freaks. Freaks who couldn’t exist in the same perimeter as a woman without making them shudder. Ivan was aware of this and became more privy to this reality when he met a group of Natalia’s peers.

“That is exciting,” Ivan admitted. He tried not to let it show that he was skeptical about how skilled an American woman could be. Growing up, at least, he had always been under the impression Americans were all ignoramuses, so how could they possibly be any good at chess? It was a sentiment pressed upon him that he adopted himself, but tried to abandon after immigrating. 

It wasn’t a long drive until Toris pulled into a twisty driveway. It appeared that there would be quite a few other people joining them, judging by the number of cars. There was a house, a rather nice one, too. It was a small single-story house, painted white with brown trim. There was not much of a front porch, like his house, but there was a pair of benches that sat around a well-maintained kaleidoscope of flowers. A few steps led up to the door, and moss grew thick on the underside of each step. 

Ivan’s heart started to beat with more ferocity, and he thickly swallowed a film of nervousness that was coating his throat. Toris glanced over next to him and smiled. 

“The host is the nicest person you’ll ever meet,” Toris said, turning the engine off. “You have nothing to worry about.”

Somehow, Ivan did not consider the fact that Toris would be the only person he knew. 

They approached the entrance, Toris took the lead with Ivan trailing behind. He rapped his knuckles on the red metal door. Ivan looked down at his shoes, where he found a standard welcome mat. Without moving his head, his eyes trailed upward when the door opened. 

It felt like the mat he was standing on was yanked from underneath his feet. His heart, which was rapidly thumping in his chest, skipped a beat, threatening to arrest altogether. With wide, nonplussed eyes, he saw the woman opening the door. 

“Hey! Toris, you made it!” She cheered. “Let's go, you brought a friend.” 

You have got to be fucking kidding me. Ivan thought. It was the TA. The goddamned TA he ran away from like an ugly, supercilious coward just hours ago. This had to be a cruel joke of divine proportions. Nauseating shame lit his face ablaze. Her smile was dazzling, and she held the door open for the two of them to enter. His eyes darted in every direction, impulsively looking for an escape he knew didn’t exist. 

“Come on in,” she welcomed. Her eyes ensnared his.“You too, big guy!” 

Ivan felt sick to his stomach. 

Chapter Text

Ivan did not know what to expect, and it made his skin crawl. His mind flurried with curse words in English and Russian. He was only a couple of steps from the front door, and he couldn’t stop staring at the TA who stood well below him, acting like they had never met. Ivan always did have a staring problem. 

“Nice to meet you, stranger.” The TA’s lips curled upward into an amused smirk. A calculated glimmer twinkled in her cerulean eyes; it was a crack in her reservoir of feigned ignorance. 

Ivan wanted to disappear from the plane of existence. She did not tilt her head up to look at him. Instead, she flicked her gaze up, keeping her head in a neutral position. Her eyes met his, but only through her fluttery eyelashes. She put her hand out, expecting Ivan to shake it, but he was hesitant. Thankfully, Toris spoke up. 

“Have you… two met before?” Toris perked up, albeit suspiciously, at their interaction. 

“Never in his life,” she answered sweetly in his stead. 

As soon as Ivan’s jaw fell open, he snapped it shut.

“Erm…” He locked eyes with the TA; he acquiesced to her mercy. He shook the TA’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you… as well.” 

Toris had left the hall and disappeared into the living room after someone had mentioned beer, and it was just Ivan and the TA standing in the hall where the door was. Ivan was inclined to join Toris, but the TA reached up to place her hand on Ivan’s shoulder and gingerly squeezed. 

“You’re friends with Toris.” She smiled, grinning so wide her perfect set of ivory teeth was on full display. She craned her neck to look up at him. “I would’ve never guessed.”

“Me neither,” Ivan replied. 

“You probably don’t know, since we’re strangers,” she stressed. “But I’m friends with everyone.”

Ivan was silent. That statement was said less as a joke, and much less flippantly, than the way she called him a stranger. It was almost like a mission statement. It revealed more about her that Ivan was certain he didn’t want to know. 

“I understand if you want me to leave.” 

“I don’t hold grudges, big guy. Under my roof, nobody is left out. Let’s go play some chess.” She guided him to the living room. 

Ivan’s eyes darkened. He never intended to apologize. 

“Are you skilled?” He didn’t know why he even entertained her. He sized her up, and she visibly stiffened as he did so. She quickly glanced up at him, but it was so fast, Ivan thought he must have imagined it. It was a sorrowful look he would have never thought her face was capable of. Alas, it was only half a second before her face resumed its happy baseline. 

“Are you kidding?” The TA laughed. “They called me Lia Cramling in high school.” 

“No, they didn’t.” Matthew sneered. “Stop telling people that.”

“It’s funny!” she protested. 

A comforting aroma of cinnamon and vanilla filled her home. There were oak bookshelves lined with thick textbooks. Warm-toned upholstery adorned the halls and floors, comprising the curtains, rugs, furniture, and lamps. There was a large window on the back half of the house, which was adorned with hanging suncatchers that Ivan guessed would scatter light across the house during the sunrise. 

Near one of the windows sat a record player on a small end table, which churned out tranquil jazz. Candles flickered in every direction, sitting on almost every table, ledge, and banister. The TA knew how to set a comforting atmosphere. 

The house didn’t have much of a dining room; there was a wide, round table located behind the alabaster sectional that lay out the borders of the living room and dining room. The round table sat in front of the large window and had a costly mahogany chessboard sitting on top of it. 

In the living room, two more chessboards were set up on a coffee table, and there was an end table near the edge of the couch with a chessboard set up, where one player would sit on the couch, and the other on a small stool adjacent to the table. 

There were not enough for everyone to play, meaning some of them would have to be spectators for a game or two. That was fine by Ivan. Watching and playing could be equally exhilarating. Ivan took a seat next to Toris, who was chatting up a tall blond man Ivan didn’t recognize. 

“I think that’s everyone!” the TA announced. “I’ll spare you all the icebreakers because everyone hates those. For the plus-ones, my name’s Amelia, my brother Mattie is the guy with the glasses.” The TA wrapped her arms around a dark-haired girl who was sitting on the sofa. The girl had a face shape similar to the TA's, and wore satin ruby ribbons tying her pigtails in place. “And thank goodness, my baby sister, Michelle, over here stopped by so we could have an even number of players!” 

Matthew spoke up. “Oh, uh, try to play people you don’t know. Lia really doesn’t wanna form any cliques, so if you’re shy, just know she and I will be hunting you down to mix you into our pot.”

Ivan tilted his head, unfamiliar with the idiom he was using there. 

“I’m gonna be showing Lovino and Feli the ropes over here,” the TA said, sitting at the round table. She sat across from a pair of twins. One of the twins seemed much too enthused; meanwhile, his counterpart had already checked out of the situation altogether. “Oh, and we have beer! Courtesy of Matthais, of course.” 

Toris nudged Ivan and gave him a sideways smile. “Don’t be a stranger, you don’t want me to be your only friend, do you?”

Ivan would have recoiled at his statement if he didn’t think about it so much. He should be affronted, but it was a fair assessment. Ivan shook his head. He disregarded the statement, though, because he saw the TA’s sister, Michelle, sit in front of a chessboard across from Matthais. Michelle must have been no older than eighteen, while Matthias looked about Ivan’s age. 

“I was thinking we could do a round of classical chess,” Michelle suggested. She scooted closer to the table, adjusting her pieces. 

“I know it’s been a while since we’ve played,” Matthias replied. “I’ll give you forty minutes, I’ll have thirty.”

Michelle looked affronted. “You never change, do you?” 

She gritted her teeth and reached for the clock. She set the timer for ninety minutes on either side and slammed it down on the edge of the table. 

Matthias audaciously crossed his arms and shrugged. “I was giving you an advantage.” 

“I’m not stupid,” she replied. “Can we just have a fair game?”

“I was making it fair.”

“Just make your move, dude.”

Matthias opened his game standardly. The pawn in front of his King, two squares forward, and he tapped the timer. Michelle opened with her pawn in front of her Queen, two squares forward, and she tapped the timer. Matthias made his Queen’s pawn stand face-to-face with Michelle’s pawn. Michelle swung into action, the Caro-Kahn defense. 

She knows good openings, Ivan thought. The game went on, and both players fought for ground in the middle of the board. At times, Michelle would have the upper hand, and then she would make a miscalculation and Matthias would take advantage of it. The same happened with him, and it led to a tense and chaotic middle game. 

Classical chess was the most interesting to watch from Ivan’s perspective. From behind, Ivan felt a finger tap on his shoulder. He turned his head and found Matthew standing directly behind him. 

“What did you say your name was again?” The TA’s brother, if Ivan remembered correctly, approached him. 

“I never told you my name.”

His face went lax. “Yeah, bud, it’s a roundabout way for you to tell me.”

“Ivan. Bragninsky.” 

“Well, I’m Matthew, the last name is a complicated subject, but it’s Williams,” he said, passing him a bottle of Corona. “Toris mentioned you could play chess pretty well.” 

“He would be telling the truth,” Ivan chuckled. He used his shirt to open the beer bottle. Ivan was more of a strong liquor kind of man, but he was grateful for the social lubricant, even if it impaired his chess skills. 

“Well, I don’t know you, so let’s play,” he prompted. Ivan took a seat on the stool across from Matthew. “You can play white, if you want.”

“That works for me.”

“I’m not terrible, but I’m nowhere near the skill level of my sister.” Matthew took a swig of beer.

“Your sister is… Amelia, correct?”

“Yessir, Michelle, too. She is my twin, Amelia is, I mean. You could probably tell that. She actually has a real elo rank, but it's been years since she’s played in a tournament,” He casually said. “The chess club was her idea. I mean, initially, yeah, she always wanted to form a chess club,” Matthew spoke like he was putting together some kind of timeline. Did the entire family have a problem with talking so much?

“I do not understand why not just form one on campus,” Ivan asked. 

“She, uh, well, she did something like that in high school, but something went wrong. It’s kinda her story to tell, y’know. It made her not wanna make any clubs through a school program.” Matthew didn’t divulge further, and Ivan didn’t press the issue. “Besides, it’s more permanent this way. You don’t have to leave it behind when she’s done with school.”

“How long do you want to play?”

Matthew squinted. “Eh, let’s do a fifteen-minute round.” 

The chessboard was a wooden foldable chessboard, and the pieces were made of translucent glass. Ivan reached over to press his timer and moved a pawn to the fourth square on the E file; the pawn that sits in front of the King. It was a standard book move; Matthew would be none the wiser when he did the same. In the center, two pawns stared each other down. 

As soon as Matthew clicked his timer, Ivan launched an attack. His Queen bolted for the fifth square on the H file, the corner of the board. The white Queen stood peeking through the opening made through Matthew’s marching pawn, menacing, threatening the integrity of his King’s defense, and directly cornering Matthew’s lone vulnerable pawn on the fifth square of the E file. It was the most aggressive attack Ivan could make, but it came with great risk and consequences. Ivan clicked his timer, beginning Matthew’s clock. Ivan could hardly contain his excitement when Matthew glared up at him with violence simmering in his eyes. 

“What the fuck.” Matthew said. “You come into my house, and my sister’s chess club, drinking my beer, and you have the gall to try and play the goddamn fucking Scholar’s Mate?” 

Ivan grinned. It was surprisingly easy to get him riled up. He wondered if the TA was the same way. 

Matthew’s eyes narrowed, his fists balled. It would not be an overreaction for Matthew to flip the table over and shoot Ivan between the eyes at that moment. Everyone hates a Wayward Queen Attack. While within the rules, it was gaudy, trite, and unnecessarily aggressive, especially when the opponent knew how to counter it. 

Ivan simply smiled. Matthew, without looking down at the board, moved his Knight to the sixth square of the H file, protecting his pawn. He clicked his timer. 

Ivan did not back down. His bishop ran to the fourth square of the C file, reinforcing the Queen’s presence, threatening to checkmate if Matthew didn’t defend his pawn. Ivan was satisfied when he heard a sharp huff push through Matthew’s nostrils. Matthew’s pawn stepped forward, putting pressure on the white Queen to back off. 

“Where is your poker face?” Ivan taunted. The white Queen fled like it was an intricate dance, but found an opening to the original target, the black pawn that was in the white bishop's line of sight. The white Queen fixated on that pawn, hanging safely on the third square of the F file. Ivan clicked his timer. 

Matthew scowled and began gulping his beer. “This is chess, not poker.” 

Matthew flailed his hands; the tactic to punish the white Queen’s hostility had slipped from his mind. The timer went on as he racked his brain, and with each passing second, tension built up in his chest. He bounced his knee up and down, with the roll of his eyes, and he groaned. His right-most knight charged to the fourth square of the D file, aligning it next to the white bishop, and directly attacking the square the white Queen found refuge in. 

This was a fatal blunder. 

“I win both, must have confused the two.” Ivan laughed softly. It was checkmate as soon as Ivan’s timer began. The white Queen encroached, the black King was cornered as the pawn in front of him was taken. There was no escape, the white bishop was backing the white Queen. 

“Do you always play the most annoying opening?”

“No. I like to get in the head of my opponent.”

“Well, it fucking worked.”

“I see that.”

“Whatever, man, I don’t even like chess like that. I’d like to see you play Amelia, eh?”

Ivan eagerly wanted to express his skepticism, but he figured Matthew would not take kindly to it. He glanced over to the round table, where his interest was piqued by Toris, who sat across from the TA. Matthias, Michelle, Lovino, and Feliciano were crowded around the table, immersed in what seemed like a tense game. Just thenIvan realized that the room became unusually quiet. 

If the TA had any trouble handling Toris, she didn’t show it. Her face was relaxed, her rosy lips were lightly pressed together, and her eyebrows were even. Meanwhile, Toris struggled to keep his anxiety under wraps. He bit his nails and couldn’t stop combing his hair with his fingers. 

Ivan and Matthew exchanged glances and went to observe. Toris was near Ivan’s level, making the game a perfect gauge of the TA’s skill. In Ivan’s mind, there was no world where he saw her beating Toris. So when he approached the board, his stomach plummeted. He analyzed it like he was the Stockfish engine. 

From an initial glance, Toris and the TA were on equal footing. Pieces were scattered about the board, but the real action was taking place near Toris’ King. His King sat idly behind two pawns, which made Ivan uneasy. A rook would easily be able to checkmate in such a position, but it seemed that he was too preoccupied with trying to threaten the TA’s Queen on the opposite side of the board to be bothered to march one pawn forward. 

The TA’s Queen was damned to the fate of a fork between herself and a bishop; however, losing a bishop to a fork wasn’t the only trouble she found herself in. There were no safe squares nearby for her Queen to escape. Pawns like landmines were closing left and right. Faraway bishops hung like snipers, backing them up.

The threatened Queen and bishop were one square apart, but in the midst of them, there was the TA’s rook, who could capture the Knight if Toris chose to attack. But it was a Queen he could take, a worthy sacrifice for a Knight. Toris was feeling confident. Toris had the opportunity to choose whether to take her Queen or bishop and only lose a Knight in the process. 

He moved his Knight and captured the TA’s strongest piece, her Queen. This seemed to be a major advantage for Toris. Ivan shivered as the TA’s smile inched wider by half a millimeter. 

The TA did not capture the Knight. 

Ivan wanted to scream. It was so obvious that as soon as the thrill of the capture washed off everyone in the room, they saw the clear line to the back-most file was open. The rook that was caught up in the middle of the fork surged forward as the Knight moved towards Toris’s King. 

“Checkmate,” she said. 

He watched in horror. Toris reached his hand over the board to shake the TA– no, he shouldn’t call her that– to shake Amelia’s hand. 

Matthew scolded in a low voice. “Don’t look so surprised, I told you, didn’t I?” 

Ivan furrowed his brows and rolled his eyes. “Don’t act like you saw that coming, either.” 

Matthew shrugged. “Yeah, I was totally focused on the fact she lost her Queen.” 

Amelia stood from the table and downed the last of her beer. Michelle stood beside her with a wide smile plastered on her face. Speaking of plastered, Amelia went in for another beer. 

Ivan approached her from behind. “I was not expecting you to beat Toris. Would you like to play another game?”

“I doubt Toris wants to play again.” She gripped the neck of the glass bottle and twisted the top open with the fabric of her white button-down. 

“Against me, of course.”

Amelia’s eyes wandered around the room and drifted their way up to his. Her face was mellow, and she was blinking as if to get a better look at his face. 

“Nah. I’m done for the night. Lovino gave me an earful when I told him about en passant. Besides,” she said, she held up her half-empty bottle. “Besides, if I played you tonight, you might not come back.”

“Is that your strategy? Saying you’ll play me next time, so I will come back? Will you actually play me next time, or will you say you’ll play me next time, the next time I come?” His words left a sour taste in his mouth as he realized he had inadvertently said he would be coming back. 

“Hold on there, cowboy,” she laughed. A storm surged behind her eyes. “I didn’t know you could speak more than three or four words at a time.”

“I certainly can.” He said. “Consider it a privilege to hear.”

“Hardy-har.” She took a sip from her bottle. “Would a bullet game scratch your itch?” 

A flicker of irritation flashed on Ivan’s face, but Amelia either couldn’t pick up on it or chose to ignore it. She sat back down at the chessboard. The remnants of her victory were still present; Toris’ King was still smothered by a rook. She picked up the poor King and placed him back on his square, and fixed the board so all of the pieces on the black side were in the correct formation. Ivan followed suit, wordlessly agreeing to be white. 

Amelia picked up the timer and punched it in one minute. 

“I don’t like bullet games. I don’t even like blitz.” Ivan said. 

“I’m no Hikaru either, but it’s all good fun.” Amelia leaned forward and curled her hair behind her ears, exposing her rosy face, cupping it in her hands with her elbows propped upon the table. 

Ivan looked away from her and down at the chessboard. He tapped on the timer and moved his Knight first. 

—

Amelia’s household became crowded after Michelle was introduced into their family. Francis and Arthur didn’t want their eldest, Marie, to have to share a room with a baby and they didn’t want their children to think they favored Matthew by giving him the only room to himself, so they upsized and uprooted to a home in Pennsylvania. All the way from Salisbury, England.

The four siblings had acquired scholarships and vouchers to a prestigious preparatory school for grades 6-12, and Marie began attending the school at age eleven. Amelia and Mattie followed suit, followed by Michelle when she was old enough. Marie had attended the school for two years before the twins arrived, and did her best to keep an eye out for them, which meant keeping her far away from Matthais Kohler. 

It was summer break, the summer before Amelia and Matthew’s first year at the school Marie went to. They vacationed in New England because Arthur was feeling rather homesick, and parts of the region reminded him of home. One stop they made on their trip was to Boston: Faneuil Hall, more specifically, Quincy Market. 

The marketplace was more crowded than they were used to, but it more than made up for it with the diverse variety of sweets Amelia tried. Amelia was led through the vivacious environment of the market, where there were shops lining every corner, with troupes and choirs distributed about, entertaining and sweetening the atmosphere. 

They walked along the cobblestone paths, the symphonies of violins, trumpets, saxophones, and cooing pigeons accompanying them. Arthur and Francis stopped at every shop, picking things up, putting them down, and purchasing things they didn’t need. There were many historical landmarks as well, although Arthur persistently made snide remarks on how “barely historical” the history was in the United States.

As they made their way through the market, they arrived outside and were greeted with statues and artwork of both funky, beautiful, and baroque designs. Amelia was captivated by a lot of tables that were scattered outside a church. People gathered, mainly in pairs, and sat together, watching and arranging different pieces across a mat. 

“Are you kidding me?” Marie said. “That’s like the third clam chowder stand today.”

“Actually, this one is vegan,” Matthew pointed out. 

“What does that even mean?” She waved her hands around. “Literally, the clam and the chowder part are from animals.”

“Uh, imitation clam?” 

“That isn’t a thing.”

“Oh, oyster mushrooms.”

She thought about it. “More likely.”

Amelia’s head followed the people sitting at the tables as her siblings continued conversing.

“Mattie, I’ll be right back,” she muttered. She strayed from her twin and began to walk around the plaza. Her eyes turned to an older man who must’ve been triple or quadruple her age. He was a lanky guy with long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. He was sitting at a table alone, moving small plastic figures across a checkered sheet. She stood next to him, trying to find a pattern in the movement of his hands. 

“What are you doing?” she said.

The man looked up from his table and glanced at her. His face scrunched up. “Where’re your parents?”

“I asked you a question first.” Amelia placed a hand on her hip and tilted her head to the side. 

“These aren’t Barbie dolls.” His tone was ridiculing. 

Amelia frowned. “I’m not stupid, I know that.”

The man looked her up and down and let out a hearty breath. He gestured to the seat in front of him. “The absurdity. Sit over there, I’ll show you.”

Amelia sat on the metal chair across from him, sitting on the side with the black pieces. She watched as he placed each piece in a specific spot. He picked up the largest piece, a curvy-looking totem with a cross sitting on top of it. 

Amelia noticed how the board mirrored itself. There was an identical piece of a different color on each side. The side of the board was labeled, and each square had a number, one through eight. The first square was black, and the eighth square was white. Amelia deduced there were sixty-four squares, given that the parallel side to her was labeled with eight letters, A-H. 

“This game is called chess. This piece right here is the King.” He twirled it in his hands and passed it over. “It's the most important piece, the only piece you can't let be threatened by other pieces. That being said, it's pretty useless. It moves only to squares beside it. Oh, and two kings can’t capture each other, keep that in mind during the endgame.”

“I’ve heard of this game,” Amelia said. 

“I’m sure you have, but chess is more than a game. It’s a puzzle, and more gushy people than me have a lot of flowery stuff to say about it.” He stared down at the board. “During the Cold War, the Soviet Union had a monopoly on chess; for twenty-some years, the chess world champion was a soviet. Those f– guys loved the game. The game makes you feel like an idiot most of the time, so they have to romanticize it.”

“What's a cold war?” Amelia asked. 

“Nothing.” He said. “Look at these horses here, they're called knights. They move in L-shaped motions. Two squares up, one to the left or right.”

“Oh, that’s cool,” Amelia said. She tested the movement out on the board. “What do the castles do?”

“They’re called rooks, they sit on the edge of the board and they move in a straight line, up and down, left and right.” He picked up the pointy-looking piece, which had a slit down the top. “This is the bishop; it only moves diagonally. And I think the last piece is the Queen.” 

“Oh yeah? This one, on… uh…” she put her finger on the eight-square and on the d-square and followed her fingers to meet at where the black Queen met. “D4.”

“Very good!” he said enthusiastically. “That’s algebraic notation. When you go to a tournament, you’ll have to write down your moves that way. I’ll show you more about it later. The Queen basically moves in every direction, up, down, left, right, and diagonal.” 

“Okay, that’s really cool. The king must be a king consort or something,” she laughed. 

The man gave her a confused look and laughed with her. “Do you wanna play a round. We can do a ten-minute game just for you to get a feel for the game, and you can decide how you want to move the pieces around.”

“That sounds good, but…” she bit down on her lip. “How do I win?”

The man facepalmed. “Right, winning. It’s called checkmate. To checkmate, your king must be under an inescapable threat. An escapeable threat is called a check, and during a check, you have to move your pieces to get your king out of danger.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Watch,” he said. He picked up his king and grabbed two black pieces, a knight and her Queen. He placed the Queen in front of the King and placed the black Knight so that if the King took the Queen, it would be in the Knight’s reach. “You see this? This is checkmate, because the king can’t move any spaces without being under threat of capture.”

“So what is check, then?”

He moved the Knight back to Amelia’s side and placed his Queen directly in front of his King. “The King is under attack, but the King can move out of the way, or capture my Queen. Checking can be helpful to force your opponent to do something they normally wouldn’t do.”

“I see,” Amelia said. She had a wide smile plastered on her face. “Well, let's play then, uh, wait, I just realized I never asked your name?”

“You can call me Mr. Wang, young lady.”

“Amelia, or Miss Jones.”

The man hadn’t a clue about the mania this man was about to deploy upon her. 

Meanwhile, while Matthew and Marie were arguing, their parents wouldn’t stop flirting with each other. They walked about a quarter of a mile back to the parking garage. In the process, they walked through a beautiful waterfront park. 

“This place is absolutely stunning during the autumn season,” Arthur commented. “We should come back sometime.”

Francis nodded his head, keeping a firm grip on the small hand of the wandering Michelle, who was nearing the age of seven. Michelle was yanking on his arm, showing no mercy.

“Papa–papa– I’m hungry! Papa, my feet hurt, too! And I’m thirsty!” Michelle whined out in a high-pitched voice, wailing in French.

“I wonder if Marie would babysit for us.” He joked into Arthur’s ear. He knelt to meet Michelle at her level and pulled a water bottle out of his bag, and handed it over to her. “Here you are, my dear.”

“Come here, you three,” Arthur absentmindedly called to the twins and Marie. He claimed a spot on a stone bench, sitting down. “I’m not allowing her to keep track of those three until she’s eighteen. And by then the twins…” Arthur trailed off, his eyes scanning his surroundings. “The twins…”

“Is something wrong, mi amor?” Francis raised a brow, glancing down at Michelle. Then, he looked over to Matthew and Marie. One, two, three… they were missing someone. Now that he thought about it, it was suspiciously quiet. “Have you three seen Amelie?” Francis sputtered out in French. 

Matthew and Marie whipped their heads around, looking for their sister. “Amelia?” they said in unison. 

No answer.

“Uh…” they spoke together once more. “Amelia!?” 

“I thought she was with you guys…” Matthew meekly huffed.

“What do you mean you thought–” Arthur clenched his jaw. “Amelia!?” 

Francis stood to his feet in haste. He raised his chin, scanning the crowd. Arthur’s breathing began to pick up before Francis even had the chance to start cursing. At that point, he turned to him and rubbed circles on his back. “Do not get worked up, darling. It will not help. She must not have gone far.”

“How do you know!?” His vision was tunneling and darkening around the corners. 

“Oh god, how did I let this happen?” Marie reproached herself and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Do you guys remember what the last thing she said was? Where do you remember her being?”

The family all exchanged glances. Arthur already had his phone practically surgically attached to his ear, speaking to a police officer at lightning speed. 

“I… I think it was somewhere around the outside of the marketplace.” Matthew answered. 

“The police?” Marie interjected. “Really, Dad?” 

“Your sister is missing! She’s eleven!” 

“Okay!” she conceded. 

“What happened?” Michelle read the distress written on their faces. “Is sissy okay? Where did she go?”

“It’s okay, sweetheart, she just got lost, but we’re going to find her.” Arthur cooed. 

“Matthew, you stay here with Michelle and your father, Marie, and I are going to retrace our steps,” Francis commanded. 

Marie and Matthew nodded. 

Francis and Marie jogged back to the marketplace. It seemed more crowded than it was before. A large crowd congregated around small outdoor tables. Some were crowded around more than others, but it seemed they were all engrossed in deep thought. Francis found it uncanny how, despite such a large crowd, it was remarkably quiet. 

“Amelia!” Francis yelled out. “Amelie! Ma petite!” 

“Lia! This isn’t funny, get your ass over here!” Marie stopped in her tracks when she caught sight of a police officer. “Hey, officer! Have you seen a girl, blond curly hair? She’s wearing a white polo and a brown bomber jacket.” 

Francis ran over to Marie and pulled a photo out of his wallet. It was a family photo, and in that moment, it made his throat tighten. “This is her; she’s wearing the same hair clips as in this picture.” 

The officer took the photo and squinted. He examined the shimmery star-shaped clips that held back Amelia’s hair. “Uh, yeah, I think I’ve seen someone like that here. Follow me.” He turned to face the crowd. “Pretty rare for young girls to be into this kinda thing. Did you leave her here with someone?”

“No, we are from out of town,” Francis replied. 

“No kidding, you sound like you’re about to go on strike,” the officer said, referring to Francis’ accent. 

Francis would’ve found the humor in that under different circumstances. The officer led the two through the crowd, dodging past observers and those trying to maneuver the plaza. 

Marie looked up at Francis and spoke in French. “You don’t think Amelia has a secret affinity for chess, do you?”

“I don’t really care at the moment,” he dismissed.

“Fair,” Marie noted. “But the officer said he saw her. She doesn’t exactly blend in most places.”

She was right. Francis saw a bouncy blonde head in the crowd and darted, rudely pushing through the groups of people. 

“Amelia!” he yelled. “I think I see her! Amelie!”

Marie was running after him, along with the officer who trotted close behind. She watched as her father got closer, and lo and behold, it was in fact her little sister sitting across from a man with a quaint chessboard sitting in between them. 

Amelia’s cheeks were squished as she leaned them onto her fists, intensely enamored with the arrangement of figures on the black and white checkered squares. Her vision covered every inch of the board before she moved her hand and hovered two fingers over a black pawn. Before she had the chance to touch the piece, Francis grabbed her arm with such ferocity that she was lifted from her seat and pulled into a tight, gripping hug. 

“Oh, my darling Amelie, I thought something terrible had happened to you.” He buried his face in her hair and inhaled. “You almost killed your papa, you know that? I almost died of a heart attack!”

Marie caught up to her father and attempted and failed to look like she was not out of breath. Her nerves were soothed by her father’s wet French babbling. She bent forward with her hands on her knees, breathing heavily. “Oh, okay. Not kidnapped, just a nerd. Got it.” 

The officer awkwardly stood to the side, nodding and muttering, “Glad I could help,” under his breath.

“What the freak! I told Mattie I’d be right back! What happened!” Amelia complained, with her head looking at the sky while Francis squeezed her like a juicer. “This rando was teaching me this cool game.”

Marie dialed her father's number into her phone. “We found her. Just meet us near the big crowd outside the shopping center.” 

“Are you out of breath?” Arthur said over the phone. “Where the bloody hell did you find her at?”

Francis turned to the man whom she was playing against, who wore a gladdened smile. He learned back in his chair and glanced at Amelia and then back at Francis. “I asked you where your parents are, so I guess this answers my question, huh? Sorry to worry you like that, Mr. Amelia’s dad. I should’ve told her off, but she’s very compelling.”

Amelia broke free from her father’s grasp, but he kept an iron-clad grasp around her hand, interlocking her fingers in his. Francis let out a shaky, overwhelmed breath. “No worries. Thank you so much for keeping her in one spot. I do not  know what we would have done if– if– well, you know.” 

“I’m glad I kept her here as well. She picked up on the game very fast. You should enter the Massachusetts State Chess tournament, I think you’d do well.” 

Amelia reddened. “What!”

Francis interjected. “We are living in Pennsylvania, but I am sure they have something similar.”

“Do consider it, Miss Jones,” he implored. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Nice meeting you too!”

“We should go; her father is probably a blubbering mess by now.” Francis lightly chuckled. 

“Oh, great,” Amelia groaned. 

—

Ivan clenched his fists. He had managed to wring three bullet games out of Amelia, and to his absolute torment, he only won the final one; he suspected she lost on purpose because she wanted him to stop asking to play another round. He wasn’t a sore loser, though; he shook her hand after each game. 

“Good game,” left his lips, but “I hate you,” swirled in his chest. 

Ivan left that night with Toris after sticking around for a match between Toris and Matthais; Matthais lost. He couldn’t help but feel glad that Matthias lost; he only wished he had beaten him first. His favorite opponents were the arrogant ones. Nothing satisfied him more than crushing them. And if he lost a game to an arrogant opponent, then perhaps their arrogance is not unfounded. 

Ivan played a game with Michelle. It was a largely quiet game with little to no small talk, but Ivan was curious about how her game with Matthias ended. Apparently, according to her, she unexpectedly checkmated him halfway through the midgame after he blundered his queen, which screwed his chances of winning. Despite fighting until the bitter end, Michelle came out on top. 

Ivan’s game with Michelle had ended in a draw; it was an ugly game. Two pawns are stranded in the middle of the board, with their kings as far away from each other as they could be. Ivan could have won if he was so inclined, but he lost his will. It was time to go home. 

Toris buckled his seatbelt and sighed before starting the car. “That was fun, no?”

“It was fine.”

“Fine? I saw your bullet games! Amelia is brilliant, kept you on your toes!”

“Do not get me started on her,” he grumbled. “A snowball’s chance in hell that we would ever be friends.”

Toris gaped. “What on earth could you possibly dislike about Amelia?”

“I do not dislike Amelia,” he scoffed. “I hate her.”

“Tell me more,” he said curiously. 

Ivan counted on his fingers, his teeth grinding together, remembering how he felt when she placed her delicate hand on his brawny shoulder, the sickness that swirled in his gut when he offered to leave, and she stopped him. She said nobody is left out. To someone like him.

He seethed. Despite being a third of his size, she was the bigger person. She was as bright as the sun, and he feared it would immolate him. 

Words spilled from his lips like poison. “I hate her… I hate her syrupy demeanor… I hate her philharmonic voice… I hate her speckless personality.” 

“Those are some unusual criticisms,” Toris admitted. He then laughed. “You know, in a convoluted way, I think the only thing you hate is how much you like her.”

Ivan slowly turned his head and gave him a look as if he had made a bizarre joke at someone’s funeral. “Did you listen to me with cotton in your ears?” 

“It sounds like you lost a game to her,” he laughed. 

“That certainly didn’t help.” 

“Are you being serious, Ivan?” Toris sounded disgusted. “You’re not one of those guys, are you? Mad you lost to a wom–“

“No,” he hissed, interrupting him. “It’s because she’s American, obviously.”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking.” 

“When have I ever made a joke?”

Toris pulled into Ivan’s driveway. “Will you be coming back next week?”

Ivan, without making eye contact, climbed out of the car. “We’ll see.”

Chapter Text

Ivan made sure to get to his class early to catch his breath at the top of the stairs. For the past three days, when he wasn’t burying his nose in books and archival manuscripts, he spent his time job hunting, looking for something that would be lucrative enough to pay for a tutor, but also a job that wouldn’t eat up the time he should be spending on studies. 

He applied to the campus’ writer’s lab, a free resource paid for by the school, where students could earn money to help undergraduates write essays. Being a PhD student, writing essays was a common pastime for him. The last thing he wanted was a campus job, but the library on campus was putting together an educational historical exhibition and had an opening available. According to the description, he would need to acquire sources on some local history, and living in New England, there was plenty of that to go around.

It seemed like the perfect job within his skill set. The agreement with Katyusha was to take up a singular additional job, but Ivan figured that if the two jobs were in the same place, she would never find out. There was a faint sense of apprehension taking on so many commitments, but he shoved it down for Natalia. 

The air conditioning unit hummed, monotonous and soothing in the background of Ivan’s workspace. He leaned forward, hunkered over his laptop, with a stack of books to his side and papers sprawled about. Propped upon the books was the textbook his professor had chosen to teach the class with. Ivan sat in the same chalkdust-scented room, Room 315, preparing for a two-hour lecture. After an industrious day of working on his PhD thesis, attending seminars, and drafting letters and emails to members of the history department committee, he began punching in grades. 

The sound of knuckles on a wooden door cued Ivan’s head to snap upward. 

Amelia, in a charcoal tartan miniskirt, stood in the doorway, one hand curled into a fist, tapping on the door, the other placed tactically on her hip. She ducked her head, as if she thought someone might jump out and ambush her on the side of the wall, blind to her. Once her sparkly gaze found Ivan, she lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Ivan!” she said, “funny seeing you here.” She coolly leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms.

Her eyes landed on him, and suddenly, Ivan became hyperaware of himself, and he wanted to hide as if she caught him in the shower. He felt the way his sweater curved in on his stomach, the way his hair was sticking to the sides of his face, the redness of his cheeks from walking around the campus in the afternoon warmth still hadn’t worn off. He felt compelled to disappear, viscerally; he did not want her to see him. It was a positive feedback loop, causing even more warmth to travel to his face. 

“Is it funny?” Ivan replied a little more bitterly than he intended. “I work here, and so do you.” He flipped through papers and typed things into his computer. Anything to avoid eye contact with her. 

“I mean, yeah, it was supposed to be a segue to what I actually came for,” she guilelessly admitted, and seemingly unaffected by his tone. In fact, her shoulder no longer pressed against the paneling of the door frame. Instead, she meandered closer to his desk, and before Ivan had even noticed, she was right across from him. She pulled out a chair, swinging it around and perched herself with one leg crossed over the other; her hands resting on the apex of her knee. 

Ivan gave in and met her eyes. Softer, he said: “And that would be..?”

Amelia cleared her throat. “For starters, I was not expecting you and Toris to be buddies, y’know. And you seemed super… uh… bewildered, to say the least. I mean, when you walked into my house, you saw me— and dude— I swear I saw a ‘oh shit’ alarm go off in your head.” she mused, a small chuckle stifled with a hitch of her breath. Ivan sustained a neutral face, but had he been more expressive, he would have rolled his eyes or narrowed them in her direction. This so-called “wrong foot” they got off on was by no intention of her own. By fault of her own, that was questionable, and verging in the lane of leaning in her favor. But nevertheless, Ivan was impressed with how perceptive she pretended not to be at times, because she clearly had a talent for it. Moreover, he admired how easily it was for her to confront awkward topics like this so gracefully. She continued, reached out her hand, and placed it on the desk. “And I was, too! I mean, you did basically, like, say ‘fuck you’ and ran off, just for you to be in my house, playing chess like nothing ever happened.” 

Ivan flinched at her words, but she spoke freely, as if she were telling him how beautiful the weather was. 

“But hey, that’s life! C’est la vie, as my papa would say.” She laughed, and Ivan took note of how natural the French saying came to her tongue. “Crazier things have happened, eh? To make a long story short…” There was a beat of silence, and a heavy soberness came to her face. “This chess club… is important to me, and despite your reservations, I hope you’ll decide to come back.”

Ivan’s heart thumped in his throat, and it occurred to him that the longer he was silent, the longer her brilliant eyes would be on him. There was a long pause, and Amelia uncrossed her legs to stand. “Are you gonna say anything? I mean, I just monologue’d your ear off, surely something is goin’ on in that head of yours?” 

Ivan cocked his head to the side, and he parted his lips. “I haven’t even played against you in a real game, yet.”

“Bullet chess counts as a real game,” she smirked, finding amusement as he rolled his violet eyes at her. “But I hear you, I definitely do. Does that mean you’ll come back?”

“If Toris plans on it." 

“Thank goodness.” Amelia let out a breath, but Ivan looked away. She ran her finger over a book that Ivan had on his desk. “Hey… out of curiosity, what do you do here anyway?”

He tolerated the question. “I’m instructing an introduction to world history. I’m a PhD student.”

“History?” Amelia’s eyebrows bobbed, looking surprised as she picked up a book from a stack Ivan kept on his desk. It was a flimsy, paperback book. Calculus Skills Practice Workbook. “What’s up with the math book?” 

“What?” 

Amelia held up the book. She fanned through the pages, fondly remembering the skills. 

“It’s for my sister,” Ivan replied. 

“How old is your sister?”

“Fourteen.”

“She’s taking calculus?” Her eyes didn’t widen in disbelief. Instead, her head cocked to the side, her bottom lip slightly jutted out to form an impressed look. “That’s pretty freaking cool.”

“She is, erm, gifted.”

“Oh shoot!” Amelia shot closer to him like a massive show of fireworks; she excitedly leaned in close to his face with a glimmering smile. Her hand pressed down firmly on the table. “She totally goes to Presswell, doesn’t she?”

Ivan’s face went up in flames; he lingered in shock before scooting away. “Uh, correct. How– how did you know?”

“I– the school used to commission me to tutor the seniors for some super important exams there. I helped kids with linear algebra, calc 4, physics, and stuff like that. I mean, I still tutor, but, y’know, budget cuts, they closed that program down!” 

Ivan was astounded. Try as he might, it was difficult to hide the way his jaw unhinged. 

“I never asked,” he said, completely taking his attention away from his laptop. “What is your degree in?”

“I have two degrees, technically. I double majored, and it wasn’t without Mattie making fun of me, in astrophysics and mathematics, but like, there’s so much overlap, the math degree was kinda just a side thing,” she said humbly. “You can roll out the nerd comments, I can take it.” She giggled. “Actually, I just had an idea! Since we’re totally not strangers now, I could tutor your sister for you!”

“That will not be necessary,” he said almost immediately. “But thank you for the offer.”

“Are you sure?” Her face fell. “I tutor a boy–“ 

“I’m sure.”

“If you say so.” She shrugged. “It's pretty hard to find a reasonably priced tutor for math like that. But the offer still stands!” 

“Ah, thank you, Amelia.” He surprised himself with how tenderly he said her name. 

“I'd better get going,” she said, turning her back to him. “I’ll see you around, yeah?” She peeked at him over her shoulder as she turned her head; her golden hair swished to the side. 

“Of course,” he replied, fighting the urge to narrow his eyes. Making the statement a question forced him to have the last word; it forced confirmation, a forced resignation. The softness of her face deepened, and Ivan reprimanded himself for wanting her not to turn around. She left the room with the same pep in her step as when she arrived.

This is not a friendship, Ivan told himself. They were not friends; he simply wanted to beat her in a game of chess, and it was as far as their association would go. Besides, how could he possibly be friends with someone who tortured him with her very existence? 

“By the way,” she said before leaving. “The game on Saturday, the one we play, it’s gonna be best out of one.” 

“Why is that?”

“I can’t just let you play until you beat me and then you never show up again,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’re gonna have to come back, week after week and when you win, you can decide my chess club isn’t for you.” 

Ivan leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with a layer of amusement ticking the skin of his face. “I guess next week will be my last, what do you think?”

Amelia cackled. “We’ll see, big guy!”

After giving his lecture, Ivan quickly cleaned the classroom. Erasing the chalk off the chalkboard, vacuuming the floor and he even opened the windows while he did it to give the air some much-needed ventilation. 

He paradoxically found himself itching to catch a glimpse of Amelia on his way out, curious if Matthew would be there, or if she would be walking out by herself. After slinging his backpack over his shoulder, he made sure the door was locked before he left. His eyes scanned the room across from his, Room 325. 

Amelia stood at the corner as a group of students crowded around her. The class had ended, but she was clarifying something from earlier in the class. She was drawing symbols that Ivan hadn’t seen since his teenage years, chalk pinched between her fingers and dusting it pale. She was rambling unintelligibly, yet passionately to her students, who seemed to be picking up on her instruction. Beside her was a man Ivan recognized as Dr. Honda, a mathematics professor and prominent research figure in his respective field. He was absentmindedly listening to Amelia, but seemed ready, as Ivan was, to leave. 

“Hey, you’re Ivan,” a youthful voice said his name from a girl who sat outside the classroom. Ivan, horrified, looked down at the girl. His breath was stuck in his throat when he was met with an Amelia-esque face. It was Michelle, looking up at him. Ivan must have inadvertently glared at her, because her chin fell downward, lowering her head.

“Michelle,” he said. “Amelia sure likes bringing her family to work, yes? Is there more of you?”

Michelle snorted at that. “Are there more of us? Yes. Here? No. I’m just visiting this town for a week to see my brother and sister. I go to school in Connecticut. The Marine Studies program is better there.”

“Shame. So you will not be at the chess club next week?”

Michelle shook her head. “Probably not. But, I’ve been thinking, I find it hard to believe you teach a class across the room from her and she didn’t mention inviting you to the chess club.”

This girl was so much like Amelia it pained him. “She didn’t invite me.”

Michelle tilted her head, puzzled. “Amelia invited everyone—even Matthias, who I do not like. Unless you killed a puppy, I seriously doubt you could have done anything to deter her from inviting you.”

Ivan swallowed. She was right, Amelia had been in the process of inviting him. His mouth went dry. “It is not important. I was there. I was Toris’ plus one.”

She nodded, hesitantly. “Huh...” She was picking apart a piece of string cheese. “Hey, Amelia and I are catching a movie after this. You should join us.”

Ivan wanted to laugh. “I don’t think Amelia would like you dragging a stranger to an outing without her knowledge.” He said, but after a second of thinking about it, he realized she probably wouldn’t mind. In fact, imagining it, she would probably be thrilled, or at least she would pretend to be. And Ivan would be thoroughly convinced. 

“I don’t think you’re a stranger,” Michelle said with cheese on her tongue. “Besides, the more the merrier.”

“I’ll have to decline.” His eyes moved over to watch Amelia. He thought about sitting next to Amelia in a cinema. If Michelle wasn’t there, would people assume… he stopped that train of thought. 

Amelia was standing on her toes, writing on the chalkboard. She dropped to her normal height and swished herself around to see her students. Her face was radiant and expressive, bright like the sun reflecting off a blanket of snow. After saying something completely foreign to him, she fixed her eyes away from her students and onto him, taking notice of Ivan staring. It was like watching a movie, and the character looked into the camera, breaking the fourth wall. As soon as her eyes landed on him, his legs jerked forward, stumbling out of her view. He rushed down the stairs. 

“Uh, I’ll see you later?” Michelle yelled after him.

Ivan was halfway down the hall. 

—

Yesterday, Katyusha had attended the worst interview of her life, and she was hoping this one would be at least a fraction better. She glanced at her outfit in the reflection of a storefront window, satisfied with her navy cotton skirt and white blouse combination. It was professional, but appropriate for the position she applied for. 

Katyusha opened the door to the pub; it was a small, charming establishment with nothing denoting what the bar was but a medium-sized neon sign that read Gil’s and a miniature marquee sign that had black lettering. The sign read: “BUD LIGHT FREE FOR LADIES ON WEDNESDAYS” and underneath it, “LIVE MUSIC ON FRIDAY NIGHTS.” 

The building was located in a crowded part of town, tucked away in an alley, sandwiched between a convenience store and, ironically, a family-owned halal grocery store. What distinguished Gil’s from other bars was the atmosphere. It smelled of cigarette smoke, beer, and a hint of weed, which was not unusual for bars, but it was warm, inviting, and while it sort of seemed like the type of place someone might pull out a gun, it definitely was not crowded enough for that. 

Katyusha approached the man she had spoken to over the phone, the man himself, Gil. The man called Gil had hair that reminded Katyusha of the snow that fell outside her home in the Soviet Union and eyes that reminded her of the red flags that were strung about. It was clear the man was albino, as evidenced by the way his eyes trembled as he looked at her. It suddenly occurred to her why the light was kept so low, and the windows seemed to be covered. The sun was a demon to this man. His thin frame leaned against the wall behind the bar; he seemed preoccupied with something on his phone. Despite these features, the man stood tall, exuding a sharp edge of confidence and wit. 

“What can I do ya for?” Gil said before Katyusha had made it to the counter. 

“I am here for an interview,” Katyusha said confidently. 

“Right, right, Kat… yusha, Bragin…sky?” He squinted, trying to remember off the top of his head. 

“Yes!”

“Awesome! Take a seat anywhere, I’m gonna grab my bud, Matt, and we can start the interview.”

Katyusha took a seat at a booth, since all of the other seats were different variations of barstools. Her eyes wandered around the pub. It was quite cozy for a bar. Wooden paneling covered the perimeters of the wall. Multiple televisions were playing different sports. On one corner of the bar, there were three pool tables and a singular foosball table. Hanging above each pool table was a beer lamp, that is, a lamp with the logo of a beer on it. One was a Coors Light lamp, a Modelo Lamp, and what looked like a vintage Budweiser lamp; each illuminated the green carpeted pool table below. On the other side of the bar, there was a corner with a small wooden stage. Atop the stage, there was a singular microphone, a couple of amps, and a sad-looking disco ball that Katyusha had the feeling did not work. 

Gil returned with another man and a clipboard in his hands. The man who followed him looked flustered; he had wavy blond hair tied back in a small bun and sported a red flannel with the bar’s employee T-shirt underneath. The stranger gave Katyusha a timid smile and sat down across from her.

“Katyusha, this is Matt. He’s one of the guys who helps me run the show here.” Gil and Matt sat side by side. 

“Nice to meet you,” he greeted, holding his hand out for her to shake.

Katyusha shook Matt’s hand. “You, too!”

“Alrighty then, Katyusha, I won’t lie, I just barely looked over your application, but it says you have experience in agriculture and supply chain management.” There was a pause. Gil squinted at the clipboard. Katyusha was unsure whether or not it was because of his eyesight or if it was a reaction to her background. 

Matt blinked, realizing that Gil had stopped talking. He nudged him and whispered. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s all good,” he replied. “W- I was just gonna ask why you chose to apply at Gil’s?”

Katyusha straightened her posture. “Ah, well,” she slowly said, glancing down at Gil’s clipboard to see a blank piece of printer paper clipped to it. An amused smirk grew on her face. “I know on paper it looks unusual, but I am looking for a job to supplement my income.”

If Katyusha had not already had a job, she would never say this, but from what she could tell, the business was hungry for staff. And when she said that, it confirmed that it might really only be Gil, Matt, and a couple part timers holding this place together. Gil looked unbothered by her answer. 

“Okay, that makes sense.” Gil bobbed his head. “Have you ever worked in a restaurant or a bistro, bar, coffee shop, or anything like that?”

“I was a barista in college,” she replied. It was actually the first-ever job she had in the United States.

“That’s basically the same as a bartender,” Matt said optimistically under his breath. 

 “You’ll just have to get a license to make alcoholic beverages, but the process is pretty easy,” said Gil, scratching at his chin and looking up to see Katyusha’s reaction. “Does that sound like something you’re willing to do?”

“Yeah, that would be fine.” 

Matt and Gil exchanged glances and then returned their gaze to Katyusha. 

“So… Matt, do you have any questions?”

“Uh…” He looked deep in thought. “When can you start?”

Katyusha burst into laughter. Matt and Gil did not. 

“You’re… you’re serious?” She gaped. “Oh, uh, I guess as soon as possible, when does the pay period begin?”

“Friday,” Gil said. “I mean, if you’d take the position.”

“Is this an offer?” Her voice was hesitant, and it seemed to put Gil on edge, like he was reeling in a fish that was coming off the hook. 

“Uh— well— I mean— yes, that is, I would like to extend an offer for the position.” 

“In that case, I would accept!”

“Then welcome to the team, Kat!” Gil stood up and held out his hand. Katyusha took his hand, and he shook it firmly. 

—

Amelia’s parents were probably the only couple on planet earth that could coexist in the kitchen without feeling the urge to eviscerate each other’s throats. Despite being opposites of one another, they were perfectly synchronized in almost every aspect. Arthur was cutting vegetables for Francis to make dinner. Francis was measuring ingredients and watching over something on the stove.

The scent of chopped onions, parsley, carrots, and thyme wafted throughout the home. A rhythmic thudding of Arthur’s knife against a wooden cutting board lulled Amelia into a trance, focused on her chessboard. Meanwhile, behind Arthur, a high-pitched sizzling of red wine marinated beef simmered on the stove, being carefully tended to by Francis. The sharp metallic scent of tender beef and Pinot Noir bubbling sashayed around a stronger, tangy, and herbal aroma. 

It was evening, the sun was casting a golden aura around the home, and it was at the time in October when it was becoming a tad too nippy outside to keep the windows open, but today was especially forgiving. An ephemeral, gentle breeze visited Amelia and caressed her face. There was a vanilla candle whisping on a banister near the window, adding a hint of sweetness to the umami atmosphere. 

Amelia sat on a barstool at the kitchen counter while her father chopped vegetables. Beside her, Marie sat, reading a book with earbuds blaring music from her mp3 player. 

Amelia glanced up, imagining how the beef would fall apart, all stringy and juicy in between her teeth. She licked her lips. The sensation of the smell, the tapping and scraping of metal against wood, filled her with determination. She held a page of her magazine in between two small, sweat-beaded fingertips. 

“Is fifty dollars a lot of money?” Amelia asked her dad. She sat at the kitchen counter, with the latest issue of a chess magazine she was subscribed to under her elbow. She let go of the page before flipping it to another article. She rested her face on her hands, letting her eyes scan the page like a barcode. Next to her was a chessboard; she was practicing different openings and defenses that she saw in the magazine. 

Arthur looked up briefly to find Amelia indifferently gazing over an article about another Russian chess player beating Garry Kasparov. She didn’t seem particularly interested in that article. He shifted the handle of the blade in his hands. Amelia changed the page, reading a new article on her favorite chess grandmaster, Louis Patagonia.“That depends on what you’re paying for, my dear. I’d imagine if it’s chess related, erm, that may well be a lofty price.” 

Amelia’s shoulders fell, flipping the page in her magazine. “Oh, never mind.”

Arthur let it at that. He returned to his cutting. Francis nudged him and glanced over at her. Arthur waved him off. 

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and Arthur knew he should be pressing his daughter to be studying for her classes, rather than studying wooden pieces on a board. There was something tranquil about how she arranged the pieces around. Amelia was a boisterous little girl, but the game seemed to reveal an entirely new side of her, one where she was focused and engaged. 

She muttered “E4, e5, knight f3, knight to e6, knight takes, knight f6, ridiculous, but okay. Knight takes” Amelia let out a harsh breath, harsh enough it alerted her father. 

“Is this about that fifty dollars?” Francis turned to her. 

Amelia swam her head in a circle before she coyly nodded. She took a bishop between her fingers and checked the king. 

“Well, spit it out, love, what is it?”

“I… I wanted to enter a tournament, but you have to pay a fee,” Amelia answered. “The tournament is in Pittsburgh, though. But grandmaster Louis Patagonia is going to be there!”

“Louis Patagonia? That is a grown man, ma cheri.”

“Ugh. The tournament is for kids, Papa. And kids play adults all the time. Nevermind. I don’t even… don’t even care.” Amelia furrowed her brow. “He sponsors the prize money, doesn’t compete.”

Arthur put his knife down on the cutting board. “Um, that seems a little… intense. Some of those players are very skilled.”

“It’s a youth tournament, Dad.” She echoed herself defeatedly. Her small fingers flipped the pages of the magazine. “Like I said, never mind.”

Arthur hesitated to respond. He simply went back to cutting the vegetables, keeping his head low. 

“Perhaps you should try playing chess with people besides Matthieu and Marie?” Francis suggested. “They are not as, uh, passionate.”

“Whatever. I don’t know.” She huffed. Tweenage Amelia was not good at communicating her frustration. There was no chess club at her school, there was none at her public library, and the only people she could play with were random retirees in the park, and they stopped wanting to play with her after she began winning. Amelia got up from her seat and put away her chessboard and magazine. “This game is stupid anyway. What kind of school has a hockey team but not a chess team? What a joke.”

Francis and Arthur gave each other a concerned expression. As Amelia scampered off, Francis turned to Arthur, who looked like he was about to implode. 

“It isn’t that I am close-minded,” he uttered the phrase. 

“I know,” Francis said. 

“It’s just, why chess of all things! After we tried getting her into embroidery, piano, ballet,” he said in a hushed tone. “Something… erm… you know…”

“Feminine,” Francis finished his husband’s thought. The admission made them both uncomfortable, especially since they were not necessarily hallmarks of traditionalism themselves. The hypocrisy, however sour it felt, was more or less preferable to vicariously living through the image of their daughter. 

“We shouldn’t say things like that.”

Francis agreed. “If she is serious about chess, I am sure she will make it work, gravitate towards like-minded people. It’s just a game, not a path of life.”

“For some, it is, Francis.” 

“I suppose you are right.” The conversation ended there. Francis let the food broil.

Marie, Michelle, and the twins played Mario Party over dinner that night. Sitting in an old French loveseat, and lounging on an ottoman, the four siblings each took a controller. They ate on bamboo TV trays close to the television, so they could reach the Nintendo 64 console. Michelle was finally old enough to play with the “big kids” and operate the remote while it is attached. 

During a mini game, Amelia felt compelled to ask: “Do you guys like playing chess?”

Matthew and Marie didn’t exchange words or glances. They kept their eyes glued to the screen, but Amelia could tell that they were not thrilled that she asked a question like that. 

“Not with you,” he said, not taking his eyes off the screen. “That’s like asking an egg if it likes to be scrambled.”

Michelle shook her head. “I hate that game,” she said honestly. “I keep losing. I think the old guys in the park only wanna play with me so they feel better about themselves.”

Amelia shrugged. That was fair. “What about you, Marie?”

“I’m all for strategy games, but I also like it when the games have a luck element to them. Um, like poker, craps, blackjack. Stuff like that to keep you guessing.”

“I’ve noticed that,” Amelia noted. She, on the other hand, did not like the dominion chance had on games.  

“I think you should find people who are at your skill level to play,” Marie said. “Or maybe someone above your level. Maybe a chess club of some kind would do you good.”

Amelia frowned. “Yeah, I’ve already looked for one.”

“And…?” Marie asked. 

The minigame ended with Michelle and Matthew beating Marie and Amelia. Marie placed her controller on her table and took a bite. She opened her mouth to speak, but Matthew had already spoken. 

“Be the change you want to see, or whatever Voltaire said.” Matthew sang. 

“Voltaire did not say that,” Marie said sternly. “But he’s right. If you want a chess club, make one.”

Amelia’s eyes lit up. Somehow, she hadn’t considered simply doing it herself. God, Amelia knew it would be so corny to say out loud, but her siblings were truly the best friends she could ask for. 

“Would you wanna join?” Amelia said excitedly. “If I started one, I mean.”

Marie gave Amelia a sideways smile. Matthew, who was already on the hockey team, did not. 

“I'll be right back, I have something to show you,” Marie got up.

Matthew’s violet gaze moved over to Marie, who could read from his strained expression that he was not happy she had suggested forming a chess club to Amelia if he would have to sacrifice something for it. But then, his gaze fixed back to his twin, and there was a pang in his chest caused by Amelia’s vibrant, vivacious eyes. They were wide and free of uncertainty. She drank up the idea like a parched horse; her excitement ran for miles. It touched Matthew and made him feel as if he loved chess as much as she did. 

Marie returned with a trifold paper. “Take this, Lia.” She pressed the paper into her palms. “Instructions on how to start a club. You’ll need a teacher who will sponsor you, though. And at least four people to join. When I started the high school portion, they gave me a little brochure on starting clubs at school.” 

“Four?” She repeated. “I can find four people! That’s easy! And Mattie, don’t worry, if you could just be a placeholder until I get the ball rolling, you don’t have to stay in the club.”

Matthew had made up his mind before she’d even offered, but it did cushion the blow. “Okay, I’ll be a placeholder. But as soon as you get enough people, I’m outta there.”

Amelia parried her hand out to him. “Deal!”

Matthew took her hand and gave it a firm shake. 

The siblings continued with the game, hardly being able to finish it after Michelle bribed a Boo to steal everyone’s stars. Suffice to say, Francis did have to get involved when things got physical. 

Amelia, late that night, dug into the contents of the brochure that Marie had given her. The brochure was a typical trifold document, folded so there were six sections. Her eyes scanned over the section that talked about the school’s academic standards, which required students to choose a club to attend. They talked about the importance of children occupying themselves with meaningful hobbies outside of their studies. The next two sections were lists of popular clubs. 

The school had a reputation for its athletics and performing arts, and so drama club, sports teams, choirs, orchestras, and marching bands were highly esteemed and received copious amounts of funding and sponsorships from the school’s wealthy alumni. She could imagine her fathers getting their hands on this and imploring her to pick one from the list. If she weren’t so adamant about chess, perhaps she would have joined the academic team. 

Amelia finally began reading the “How to Form Your Own Club” section. After minutes of reading through it, she was sitting on her bed, balled, shaking fists, trying not to lose her temper, especially with Marie, who she felt was the only person who was supportive of her interest in the game. 

Marie was right about most of the club requirements. A teacher to sponsor, at least four members, but what she forgot was that you had to be in 9th grade or above. Which meant Amelia had three years until she could form her own club. She collapsed backwards onto her mattress, gripping her hair and groaning. 

“Stupid game, stupid school, stupid rules, stupid, stupid, stupid.” Her tone was a raspy whisper. She walked, not stormed, to Marie’s room and stood in her doorway, pointing at the brochure. She averted her face from Marie, trying to hide the tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. 

“What’s up with you?” Marie asked. 

Amelia tried tossing the brochure onto her bed, but when she did, it pathetically floated onto the floor. “You need to be a freshman to start a club.” 

“What?” Marie stared at her for a moment before getting up from her seat and picking the paper up from the ground. Her stomach fell after scanning it over. “I… had no idea… Lia, I’m sorry.” 

“‘S not your fault,” she grumbled. Amelia wiped her nose with her forearm, knowing that if she sniffed, it would make Marie feel worse. “Thanks for trying, anyway.”

Amelia turned to go back to her room, but Marie took her hand. “Hey, where are you going?”

“To bed.”

“I feel bad.”

“It’s just a game.”

“I’m not stupid, Louis Patagonia is gonna be there. He’s like, your hero, Lia.”

Amelia’s voice faltered. “You– how did you know?”

“You bring him up in almost every conversation.” She extended her back and mockingly put her hands under her chin. “Like ‘this is the opening Patagonia uses’ and ‘Patagonia raised a bunch of money for the nobody-gives-a-shit-foundation!’ When nobody asked or was talking about him.” 

“Okay, holy crap,” she said, flustered. Marie gripped Amelia’s shoulder. 

“Look, I heard you and Papa talking about the youth chess tournament in Pittsburgh. If you can come up with 50 dollars, I’ll pay for the bus fare to get you there.” 

Amelia went rigid, her eyes skeptically traveled up to meet her indigo ones. “You… would do that for me?”

“Yeah, I will. For some weird reason, you’ve become a board game nerd. Dad says you got it from him. You’d do the same for me.”

Amelia nodded. “I’ll have to find fifty dollars then.”

—

It was Thursday, a more leisurely day for her since all she had was class, studying, and her tutoring gig. She enjoyed the clapping of shoes against the sidewalk, harmonizing with the whistle of the wind, the scurrying of critters, and the peal of a symphony of song birds. 

She had finished her tutoring lesson and sat on a metal bench beside Raivis, whom Amelia recently learned went to the same school as her new friend’s sister. She waited with him, waiting for Toris to come pick him up. If Toris knew Ivan, she wondered if Raivis did as well. Her lack of understanding and knowledge about Ivan bothered her. He was so… extraordinary and not in the way people usually use the word to describe something incredible. 

Amelia sensed remorse, or perhaps embarrassment, from the man upon seeing her at the chess club. Amelia was charitable to him for having the nerve to at least be embarrassed. He could be a chronically shy person for all she knows. What she did know for certain was that he had a nice face and that he made most people uneasy in his presence. In other words, he was an utterly unapproachable individual (which she can verify), and he was a consummate introvert if she had ever met one. His menacing manner did not affect her; she noticed, and it brought up a repertoire of questions she couldn’t organize. Still, despite him being rough around the edges, it was clear he loved to play chess, and he was eager to play against her. Most men were, until they had to play against her a second time. 

“Raivis,” Toris hurried to meet them. “Miss Amelia, it’s nice to see you. I am sorry for being late.”

Toris was disheveled and out of breath. He donned a brown corduroy jacket with the sleeves rolled up. 

Amelia stood, smoothing out any wrinkles in her skirt. “Hey, it’s not a problem. Raivis makes great company!”

Raivis, who hadn’t said much since the end of the session, blushed. He gripped the straps of his backpack and muttered “Thank you, Miss Amelia,” under his breath. 

The three of them began walking towards the parking lot. Amelia swung her keyring on her finger, and to keep the conversation going, she said: “Hey Toris, I spoke to Ivan today.”

“Oh yeah?” He replied. 

Amelia didn’t notice how Raivis froze. “Ivan? Ivan who? Toris, is she talking about Ivan Braginsky?”

“He never told me his last name, but it’s not a common one.” Amelia grinned. “Small world, huh? How did you guys meet?”

“Erm, we lived in the same children’s home as kids,” Toris said before Raivis. “And believe it or not, Ivan is a pretty common name where we’re from.”

“Is it really! Where are you guys from?”

Toris ground his teeth together. “Soviet Union, well, that’s what it was. We were all from different parts.”

“I get it,” Amelia said, able to reconcile why Ivan spoke with a thick accent, one she hardly noticed before. Being a chess fanatic, Amelia was acutely concerned with the Russians and former Soviets growing up. Karpov, Petrosian, Kasparov, Tal, Kramnik. It would be impolite, she guessed, to broach any of her buried jealousy she selectively disguised as disinterest for the Soviet Union or Russia, in general. In her formative years, it was bizarre to her how uniquely talented they seemed to be, but little did she know the Soviets carefully curated that image for themselves. Mr. Wang had explained to her how the Soviets would purposefully end games with other Soviets in a draw to improve their tournament performances and boost their scores. She digressed from that conversation for the sake of her company. “My family’s all from different places too. Do not ask how twins can be of different nationalities.” 

Toris laughed. “Ivan’s sisters are like that, too.”

“No way! You guys must be really close, then,” she said. “Has he always been so–”

“Yes.” They said in unison. 

“He has actually improved since he was younger,” Toris chuckled. “He is a much tamer man now.”

Amelia did not want to imagine the person Toris was describing, but it was believable. Her mind painted a vague portrait of a towering man– well– boy, cruel and intimidating. An inflammatory regal gaze, staring his victims down, listening and lurking. Venom spouting from a cruel hiss of his tongue. 

“And close, I would say yes. Almost as close as anyone can get to him, that is.” Toris said. 

Amelia took note of how little Raivis was willing to speak. But he was always that way, she reasoned. 

“The chess club will be good for him, then.” 

Toris thoughtfully paused. He was chewing on the inside of his cheek, bobbing his head. “Yeah, I think so, too.”

“This car’s mine,” she said, pointing at her white Chevy Malibu. “I’ll see you Saturday?”

“It was nice talking to you, Miss Amelia. I will be there,” he waved her goodbye, as they made their way to Toris’ vehicle. 

As Amelia drove, she thought about Ivan and how, if she were forced to study human history, she might be just as misanthropic as him. So she cut him some slack and would do everything in her power to beat him at every game of chess, to keep him coming back to her house.