A/N: Pardon my graphic Freddie-fic, but I just couldn't help writing this. Really. I had no control over it. I'm sure Elizabeth will like it at the very least… So anyways, enjoy, and if humiliation isn't your cuppa tea then don't read. Ciao!

Disclaimer: Chess no mine. I'm not smart enough to come up with those fantastic lyrics, are you kidding me? No.

Pretending

Thousands of miles from home, Freddie roams the darkened streets of a city he barely knows. It's most likely morning in New York, perhaps even early afternoon; in Thailand it's the depths of the night, teeming with colorful lanterns and the shadier forms of business emerging from alleyways. He shouldn't be wandering this foreign place alone, but-

Anatoly had won again. And then he had left. His heart hurt.

This year, when the Russian man wounds him it has nothing to do with stealing away his partner- Florence, he had learned, made her own decisions as she always has and he ponders whether they ever really loved each other at all in that elusive romantic sense. Certainly not in the sexual sense, because Freddie has never really understood the mechanics of that. (It's not as though he had a father to teach him.) He must be broken somehow, because the image of Florence lying bare on his bed only serves to make him uncomfortable- and not in a good way.

No. This year, Anatoly has done nothing but follow his advice, a thing that no one could have predicted. Unfathomable. It had given him hope, an uncontrollable spark in his hear, as he watched the final jerky moves. Anatoly had acknowledged him, so perhaps he was worth something after all…

Then, the announcement. He kicks a loose piece of gravel bitterly, eyes dull even in the moonlight. Up ahead a figure turns it's head and scrutinizes him from the mouth of an alley. He pays it no heed.

"Sergievsky has just announced that he is returning to the Soviet Union-"

Even now, Freddie chokes up a little at that. His emotions have always been close to the surface but he still feels pathetic fighting back the sting of tears. He's a grown man! Why does this feel like rejection? It shouldn't. It's not. Rejection would have required some move on his part and disregarding his disastrous attempt at luring the Russian into Walter's "deal" he had done nothing.

He'd sat and watched the pieces in front of him until time ran out, regretting all of the seconds he had wasted.

Friendship- and beyond. It's what he offered and unbeknownst to Anatoly it had nothing to do with the deal he'd been given. Freddie had taken his liberties with that, inventing some excuse to try and worm his way into his former opponents heart. It was all him. All his own stupid idea. Ridiculous. For the second time he is forced to acknowledge his absence from the other man's mind.

And why does it matter, anyways, that Anatoly is the first person he's identified with- the first, embarrassingly enough, that he's had those feelings for- what does it even matter anymore? To anyone else, any normal person, it probably wouldn't.

His feet carry him past the figure on the corner and it's taken an interest in him. "Hey." A casual male voice. Freddie's received a million propositions beginning with that word already since he flew in here and he's rejected them all. Thailand has no lack of a sex industry, especially for tourists. And although he shouldn't have given it a second thought, some random twist of fate makes him turn for just a heartbeat and look back.

Dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin-

By GOD he looks like Anatoly.

Is he imagining it? Wishful thinking holds great power over Freddie's fragile state of mind. He might just be looking for similarities, but he doesn't care. Turning fully, he guardedly looks the man full in the face.

A crooked smile and a white stick poking between pink lips- Freddie knew he was already hooked. The man advanced on him, sashaying his hips a little more than necessary. "What're you looking for this time of night?" He pulled the sucker from between his lips with a pop to speak and grinned invitingly.

Not you. It's what he usually says to people like this, but suddenly some unknown emotion grips Freddie around the throat, staying his tongue. He tensed. It must have taken too long for him to try futilely to compose an answer, tired mind working furiously, because the other man sidled closer, right up into his personal space. Damn it but he smelled good… Freddie supposed that was just part of the business, but it was almost…

Enticing.

His thoughts raced, bouncing off his skull and each other and multiplying so rapidly that he began to feel overheated and dizzy. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he put real thought into the idea. He'd never hired a prostitute before; it was a profession far below him. Dirty, he remembered calling it with his trademark sneer. Filthy. Disgusting. As were all of the people who supported such a risqué way of living.

Rough hands glided down his sides, barely grazing him and yet setting every nerve afire. "I can show you a good time. If that's what you want." It's a low murmur, hot and moist on his ear, and he can't help the shudder that travels through his body or the low moan building in his chest. His thighs twitch and he feels the arousal building, heavy between his legs.

What he wanted? Freddie wanted a lot of things. Freddie was disgusting and dirty and all of the things he'd once said about others just for allowing this man to touch him but he was paralyzed, lips slightly parted and pupils dilated. What was he supposed to say to that?

He wanted a second chance, is what he really wanted. A second chance at Anatoly, his friendship and his respect and something like this, maybe, if he could ever convince him.

He wanted forgiveness. He wanted to repent. He wanted someone to come and punish him for the countless things he'd done wrong. Better than this, better than torturing himself until he snapped.

He wanted to forget. Forget Florence and Merano and Bangkok, yes, especially Bangkok.

He wanted to imagine that this man here really was Anatoly, really did want him, really was still here, not back in Russia where he probably belonged.

He wanted to get laid for once. And here was his opportunity.

The other man was slowly guiding him backwards, pushing him into the alley and out of view of the mostly empty street. Hands on Freddie's waist, he moved his mouth down to his neck, trailing his tongue over it lightly and causing another massive twitch in the muscles of Freddie's thighs. All of the feelings he should have had that night in bed with Florence were coursing through his veins right there, right then.

God, he wanted it. It couldn't hurt just this once…

The moment he'd given in, a small, nearly inaudible whimper had escaped his throat. His head tipped back to allow the nameless man more room, blue eyes squeezing shut until he saw stars. Taking this as a sign of encouragement, the man slid one of his hands down further and rubbed his thumb over the ex-champions thigh, sucking lightly on his neck and pressing him back into the brick behind him.

Freddie could feel himself losing the will to say no, falling back on his instincts and his deepest, darkest fantasies. It occurred to him suddenly that with this man, nothing he could request would ever be called depraved. A few dollars extra and he could do whatever he wanted, call him whatever he wanted…

Jerkily, the American fumbled in his pocket for his wallet and shoved a few crinkled bills into the dark-eyed man's hands. He didn't meet those eyes, just muttering under his breath, "What'll it get me?"

"Anything that you can think of, sweetheart," the voice drawled. He chanced a glance upwards and regretted it, a strong impulse running right to the tip of his cock at the sight of the candy being brought back to the smirking man's lips, tongue darting out to wrap around it in what was surely a practiced motion. Holy shit, if Anatoly had ever done something like that in the same room as him-!

With that, Freddie's inhibitions flew out the window.

"Tell me I'm worthless." No longer ashamed, or at the very least enjoying the ride, Freddie's voice was strong and clear. The other man hardly batted an eye, simply nodding in what looked like mild amusement. He tossed his sucker to the ground carelessly, murmuring silkily, "So you're that type? Had you pinned." Snorting, he rolled his shoulders and closed his eyes, clearing his throat. "Alright."

When he opened them again the spark of mischief was gone, replaced with cruel anticipation. "Dirty faggot," he spat. The wrongness of it all was conspicuously absent from Freddie's mind; wide-eyed, hardly believing this was really happening and heart thumping unevenly, he nodded vigorously and pressed further back into the wall. It stung, like a papercut to his pride but infinitely more satisfying. He deserved this, he was convinced.

"You're disgusting." Those hands were back on his waist, barely lingering long enough to pinch him before moving and popping the button on his white suit pants. "Worthless piece of shit. You're enjoying this, aren't you?" The inviting voice was gone, replaced with this demeaning tone that, even though it didn't make a lot of sense, still had a seductive quality to it. Freddie squirmed under his intense gaze, already uncomfortable in his tight pants.

"Yes," he whispered, unable to tear his eyes away from the smirk on the other man's still spit-shiny lips. His hips stayed perfectly, obediently still as his zipper was drawn down but his erection throbbed. Yes he was enjoying this, and yes, Anatoly's name was on the tip of his tongue- but he would restrain himself.

"Filthy little fuck." Unceremoniously, a hand wrapped itself around the base of his cock and squeezed lightly, eliciting a choked gasp from the rapidly unraveling, broken American. His eyes had closed again, this time of their own volition, and he couldn't help moaning loudly at the first strong pull. To hell with anyone hearing him now. To hell with reputation. Frederick Trumper had no reputation left to speak of anyways.

To his shock- but not necessarily displeasure- Freddie felt a sharp slap to his cheek at that. His head snapped to the side and his eyes flew open a second time, but he made no sound of displeasure, just licked his lips and waited for more, eyes glowing with anticipation. His heart was in his throat, making it a struggle to breathe.

"Whore," hissed the darker-haired man, so vehemently that Freddie almost believed it. "Look at you. Spreading your legs for some stranger in an alley." Another slow, languorous stroke nearly made him sob. There were those volatile emotions again, misting his eyes and filling him with desperation. "You want it?" came a low growl.

Nodding more than once, trying to banish the niggling in the back of his mind reminding him that this was crazy and wrong and damn his father for being right all along, he tried to take a steadying breath and instead hiccupped. His hips thrust minutely forward into that rough hand and the friction, so slow and teasing, began driving him insane.

"Tell me how you want it, slut." The hand halted and Freddie seized, desperate, as an idea popped into his head.

Without much warning, he hesitantly sank to his knees, ignoring the pang in his nether regions at the loss of contact and making sure, eyes meeting, that this was okay. The prostitute made no move to stop him, only curled his lip in a sneer. No, that wasn't right… it didn't look much like Anatoly at all. Tearing his eyes away, he swallowed in shame and anxiety, taking in the sight of the bulge in the other man's pants just before him. Shaky hands imitated the other man's earlier movements until there was a half-hard cock pressed to his trembling lips, slowly growing. The bitter taste of precum made him wince, entire body shaking slightly.

"Go ahead then," the other man said lazily, thrusting slightly forward in suggestion after a moment. He must be ecstatic, Freddie thought to himself- being paid not to give a blowjob, but to receive one? Sounded like a deal. He didn't care, though, that this wasn't the conventional method of prostitution.

Freddie had never taken the conventional route anyways.

More nervous than he'd ever been about anything else in his thirty years of life, Freddie darted his tongue out to give the first tentative lick. It tasted awful, for the most part, with a salty aftertaste that he resisted the urge to make a face at. The man above him gave a small moan, clearly much less ashamed of himself than Freddie was. This was his profession, after all- sex was his game like chess was Freddie's, or used it used to be. Taking another deep breath he decided to dive into this the same way he did everything else- impulsive, he took the head into his mouth, careful to curl his lips around his teeth, and sucked.

"Nnnh-" came the low, sultry reply. There. That was more like it- he could at least imagine that Anatoly had made that noise. Fingers threaded through his short hair and tugged lightly, almost playful, and he shut his eyes. Behind the lids it WAS Anatoly standing in front of him, groaning and thrusting into his mouth, and it was much preferable to his pathetic reality.

His progress was slow and sloppy at first. It went without saying that this was the first blowjob Freddie had ever given in his life. (Not to mention his first sexual experience that didn't involve his own hand, period.) He was reasonably anxious to do well, especially with the image of Anatoly imprinted on the backs of his eyelids, grinning crookedly with that curly hair hanging in his eyes… But slowly, slowly, he was getting there.

The shaft sliding in and out of his mouth seemed too big to begin with. As it slicked up with his saliva it became easier, but only slightly. Freddie concentrated as hard as he could on just getting this guy off the way he imagined he might like it- and strangely, miraculously, it seemed to be working. His own erection throbbed needily and he wrapped a hand around it instinctively, pulling in time with his sucking, licking mouth, building to his climax.

It occurred to him that he was kneeling on the filthy ground in white pants. Leaving now would alert everyone in sight of what he'd done, between the stain on his pants and his own shameful, disheveled appearance. If the press caught him it would be everywhere. But the press wasn't interested in him anymore, was it? It was interested in Anatoly, which was even worse. Everywhere he went he would be bombarded with updates on the Russian man's life, personal and public…

"Close-" The single, strained moan was his only warning. A spash of salt against the back of his throat made him choke, pulling back before he could bite down by accident. The man leaned away and zipped up his pants, panting and looking extremely satisfied. Freddie sat back against the brick, licking his lips repeatedly as if it would clear him of his sins, would wipe away this degrading experience… But he knew that it wouldn't. Nothing could ever make him forget this.

The prostitute was again a prostitute, not the man he was afraid he had fallen in love with. He lingered for a moment, but when it became clear that Freddie wasn't going to ask anything else of him he shrugged, leaning down to pat him on the shoulder almost sympathetically. "Have a good night, honey." He walked away, and as his footsteps grew fainter Freddie gave in, letting the first of many sobs escaping him.

It wasn't enough. Nothing was ever enough, nothing was ever going to make this better. Here he was crying in an alley, cum splattered on his face and halfway through his digestive tract, and Anatoly was boarding a plane.

Florence wouldn't even take him back.

He wiped his eyes angrily but they only kept coming.

Nothing would ever get better- but he'd go on pretending…