Freddie doesn't even fucking remember the last time he slept.
Logically, he knows that coffee isn't going to cut it forever but he just can't. He has to figure it out - he has to know how Sergievsky did it, he has to understand, he knows that he knows it, he just can't find it in his head.
Everything is so fucking jumbled lately and Florence is getting titchy, and everyone seems to want a piece of his mind when Freddie can't even navigate it himself.
Do they seriously think he's that much of an asshole?
Freddie's lived his whole goddamn life in poverty. He can't be faulted for being shrewd about where his next paycheck is coming from, or for demanding a higher wage for the only thing he's ever going to be good at.
What's the point of being a fucking genius when everyone still goes out of their way to call you a shit?
And this Sergievsky guy - fuck, it's not like he's going to admit it out loud, but he's not sure he's going to be able to beat him.
Not now. Not like this.
Fuck, how did he -
"Freddie - Jesus, Freddie, have you looked in a mirror lately?"
He doesn't have the energy to spin around but he stiffens at the sound of Walter's voice. His back is aching - he's been bent over this chessboard for what's probably something like three hours. Florence had stormed out in exasperation that morning and he's been alone since. The curtains are drawn, but he's almost completely sure that the sun is well past it's peak. It might even be going down.
Fuck. He's running out of time. He has to -
"Go away, Walter," he mutters hoarsely. His eyes are probably red. They itch. He really needs another cup of coffee.
His hands won't stop shaking.
Walter lies a hand on his shoulder gently and Freddie jerks away instinctively, his lip curling into a defensive snarl.
"Let me rephrase - Fuck off, Walter," he snaps, finally turning to look at him. His hair isn't long enough to hang in his eyes anymore and he hates it. He has nothing to hide behind anymore.
It's all Florence's fucking fault. She's the one who made him cut it.
Who the fuck decided that short hair was more professional? How come Sergievsky didn't have to cut his goddamn mop, then?
"Are you alright?" Walter's forehead is creased in what looks like genuine worry. Freddie deflates a little - he has a feeling he looks about as good as he feels, and if that's true he's sorry for anyone unfortunate enough to lay eyes on him today.
There's three days until the match. God. He's going to throw up all over the chessboard.
On international television.
Walter places a hand on each of his shoulders and squeezes, his expression tightening sympathetically. "Freddie," he says pointedly. There's a Starbucks cup sitting on the nightstand, an iced coffee, his favorite. He forgets sometimes that Walter knows these things about him.
When exactly had he decided he trusted Walter De Coursey enough to let him know what he was insecure about, let alone his Starbucks order?
Freddie can't remember the last time he actually trusted someone.
Fuck, he's tired. He bets Sergievsky isn't tired.
Where had Florence gone, anyways?
Walter doesn't push him. Walter is actually really good at that, better than Florence ever was. He just lets him have his anxiety attack and rubs his shoulders, and the room is dim and smells like coffee and nervous sweat and Walter's cologne and despite everything, eventually, Freddie feels himself beginning to relax beneath his hands.
He lets his eyes fall shut helplessly, which is better than letting them well up like they're going to if he keeps them open. "I have to figure this out," he mumbles, halfhearted. Suddenly, sleep seems so much more appealing than chess.
He hates that anything can be more appealing than chess. He hates that they've all ruined this for him.
It's the only thing he has. Where's the fucking respect?
"You have to sleep, actually." Walter snorts, and glances at the bed with a raised eyebrow. It's perfectly made, contradicting everything about Freddie's entire life. He knows better than to ask about Florence, but it hangs in the air like some sad bit of foreshadowing.
Freddie decides that he hates his life.
He hopes when this miserable life is over he'll be reborn as something easier to love. Maybe a cat.
"Are you going to take a break on your own, or do I have to drag you?" He wouldn't actually drag him, because Freddie would panic and then everything would just be worse, but because it's Walter, Freddie just sighs and goes willingly. His knees ache. He hasn't stretched in hours. His throat is sore.
When he stands, their lips are perfectly aligned, inches apart. He doesn't know why he notices that. Maybe it's because they're the same height, and he's always kind of liked that about Walter. There's nothing intimidating about him, which is another thing he has going for him.
He shakes the thought from his head. No. He's - he's got other things to worry about, anyways.
"I - could use a break," he admits, because he might be stubborn but he's not actually suicidal and he thinks he might die if he stays here still breathing the same Florence-stale until she finally comes back.
Walter smiles wanly, finally letting him go. It might be Freddie's imagination, but he'd let his hands linger, slack, just slightly too long on his shoulders.
He turns to the door, nonchalant.
"Come on, then. We can find somewhere for lunch."
Much as Freddie hates people, he appreciates Walter in times like these.
Time.
Three days.
Merano is a disaster, of course.
Freddie wishes that he'd never gone on that walk.
He wishes he'd changed the locks, instead, and left Florence on the other side of the door where he was safe from her.
Walter let's Sergievsky out of Russia. Freddie gets drunk. He swears loudly to himself, slumped against the brick in some foreign alley, that he'll never speak to that conniving bastard ever again.
No matter how much he wants to.
No matter how much he'll - he'll miss him…
Freddie forgets about hating Walter the second day back at his New York apartment.
He forgets about everything but hating himself.
He forgets to leave the house at all.
He doesn't get groceries for two weeks. He finally runs out of food in the fridge, and calls for pizza, which he barely pokes at.
He wishes that his cat was still alive. He wishes that he'd never, ever met Florence Vassy.
Walter shows up the third week and offers him a job. He shouts it at him through the front door, actually, since Freddie hadn't bothered to get up and answer it. He tightens his mouth, which tastes dry and stale. He hasn't done much but lie here and contemplate his own existence in as long as he can bear to remember.
He forgets that Walter has a key to the apartment, too. But he doesn't forget why he'd given it to him.
No. He still can't quite forget Walter. He still can't want to.
Walter lets himself in, warily looking around. The apartment is filthy, probably, not that Freddie really cares. It's not like he's expecting guests. He's certainly not expecting Florence, nor would he want her back after everything she'd said, he'd said.
Walter says nothing sarcastic about the empty, open cupboards or the dishes piled in the sink.
He sits on the edge of the couch that Freddie isn't occupying. He doesn't touch him. He knows not to.
Fuck.
Freddie is so sick of feeling things. He wants numb back. He doesn't want to feel this, he doesn't want to, this isn't fair -
"I don't want you falling off the face of the planet, you know, Freddie," Walter is saying. He's got coffee in hand, again. He always brings Freddie his coffee when he thinks he might need it, which is always. Freddie just wants to cry, thinking about it.
God, when had he allowed this to happen?
What did he do wrong, this time?
There's a long moment of silence. Freddie let's it stretch, vindictive, but he's too tired for the strain right now. He mutters, halfhearted.
"I'll take it. Now leave me alone."
"You have to actually show up," Walter chuckles. He lies a hand faintly on his shoulder. "Or else I can't pay for your groceries. It looks like you could use some."
"M'not hungry." That's a lie but he's also too lazy to get up and find something to eat. Walter will probably try to take him out, and there's no way he's doing that. He never had this much of a beard as a teenager. This is all just fucking ridiculous.
"Then how about a razor," Walter says, deadpan, brushing his fingers over his stubble on his cheek. Freddie turns his face away with an irate groan, his cheeks warming slightly.
"How about you butt out, traitor?" he grumbles. There's little bite behind it, even though the ache is alive and well dead center in his chest. He just can't bring himself to blame Walter for Florence's abandonment, as stupid as that is. As though he has a problem with blaming anyone else.
Walter is the exception far too often. He's not sure how he feels about that.
Right now he can still feel the ghost of his touch on his face and he's trying to pretend that he didn't miss human contact, that Walter isn't the only person in the world that he ever wants to touch him at all anymore, to stroke his hair or squeeze his shoulder.
Walter is just always there being exactly what he needs him to be, and he can't - he can't -
God, he can. He doesn't care anymore.
"Kiss me," he demands, suddenly, just to get it over with. Of course. Just to get it out of his system. He just - wants to get back to his sulking. Wants to be left alone.
Walter doesn't hesitate. He leans down and presses his lips to his cheek, then to his lips, firm and quick, so fast that Freddie can't help leaning after it. The yearning only intensifies. He wants to fucking scream. This isn't fair.
If he keeps kissing him then Walter is going to want more, which he knows he can't give him - or maybe even worse, he won't want anything anymore, and then he really will be alone. Which has never been what he actually wanted.
Not that Florence seemed to realize that. Or maybe she didn't care.
Walter kisses him again without prompting. This is softer, longer, but closed-mouthed. Freddie exhales shakily and reaches up to touch his face. The feeling of human skin, someone else's skin, beneath the pads of his fingers is so foreign that it tingles.
It's everything he needs. This is it. He can be content, now.
More silence. Freddie keeps his eyes shut tightly. He can't look at him. His mind is starting to clear, for the first time in weeks. Probably not for long, but he has to savor it.
Everything hurts when he thinks, but it's refreshing just to be able to.
"Thank you," he hears himself whisper, and Walter takes a light hold of his wrist, squeezing gently.
"How about that lunch?" he asks casually. And smiles.
Freddie doesn't know how, but he opens his eyes. And smiles back.