This is based on a headcanon that Freddie has extreme insomnia (other headcanons can be found on my tumblr if you're interested). I think Freddie and Florence are both kind of messes without each other.
This takes place before Florence Quits but after their Mountain Duet fight
I don't own anything.
Freddie couldn't believe it! Florence had requested a different room, after their fight on the mountaintop.
He seethed on the spot; literal flames might've been coming out of his ears. Florence at least had the nerve to tell him as she carried her luggage out of their room. She could've just as easily let Walter explain to him why his second never showed up tonight. Still, it was rough on him.
He had called her a bunch of horrible names that he didn't really mean. She had just laughed and slammed the door behind her.
Now he paced in his room, trying but failing to concentrate on dissecting Anatoly's moves. His thoughts kept straying from how to Communist played chess to the possibility of the Red in her room… She probably ran into his arms after their fight.
It was enough to make him want to vomit.
Focus, he tried to tell himself. When he moves the bishop, he almost always intends to sacrifice them. If he didn't take the offering-
The shrill ring of the telephone interrupted him. Freddie's head snapped over to the phone, "Who the fuck?" It was almost three in the morning.
"This is Trumper." He answered casually.
"If you want 5 hours of rest, you need to start going to sleep now." Florence's voice sounded tired and strained.
Cheerfully, he said "Wrong number." Then he hung up the phone, angry all over again.
Now he had to dissect her moves. Why would she bother?
Did her calling mean she was alone? She had to be…
She knows you can't sleep.
So, why bother? She's clearly interested in the Red. It would be in their best interest to let him stay up all night and drive himself completely mad…
Logically, he conceded to the point that she still cared for him. After all, they had spent 7 years in a relationship. Despite all reason, she only ever admitted to loving him.
But why bother?
If she wanted him to sleep, she should be forcing him into bed. She should be here with him- helping him plan, helping him plot. She didn't have to be crying in another room or making him obsessively question her motives.
Freddie passed a hand over his face. He had closed his eyes for a moment longer than a blink and realized how tired he was.
"Damn her," He cursed.
He crawled into bed and flung his head back into the pillow. It smelled of strange detergent and Florence's perfume.
"Fuck me." He groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. He took a deep, calming breath and tried to relax.
The usual restless energy plagued him. Freddie focused on his breathing, but he became self-conscious and his breaths became forced and unnatural. It was always so hard to fall asleep (without her especially). Normally, he had Florence's breaths to lull him to sleep.
He lay there for another ten minutes before breaking.
He sighed and sat up, turning on the lamp and picking up the phone. He hit the redial button and waited.
Florence picked up on the third ring, "What do you want?"
Freddie had the decency to feel guilty about hanging up earlier. "I can't sleep."
"I'll stay on the line." She promised.
He scooted over and put the receiver next to him on the pillow, like they used to do when they competed on separate leagues. He imagined she did the same.
"Okay." He whispered, closing his eyes. Within minutes, they were both asleep.