A/N: Well would you look at that. Inky has managed to talk me into posting this even though I know I won't update it for centuries after… Although, I'll probably be bugged about it by my multitude of Chessloving RENTheads. Yay for crossovers.

Disclaimer: How dare you insinuate that either of these beautiful musicals were spawned from my fucked up excuse for a right brain! Pshh. Yeah, no.

Prologue

It's all over.

He grabbed the first thing he could get his hands on, eyes cast at the wall rather than the object- he didn't check to see what it was, just whipped it on impulse and listened with vindictive satisfaction as it shattered against the blank expanse.

Good. Something fragile. Something he could break.

Someone had to pay for this.

Freddie didn't think he'd ever in his life had such an awful day. That included the entirety of his miserable, lonely, abusive childhood, the dozens of anger management classes he'd stormed out of over the years, and the only occasion that Florence had managed to persuade him to go see a therapist about his, quote-on-quote, "emotional troubles".

What was all of that in comparison to losing the only thing he'd ever dreamed of accomplishing in the space of twenty four hours?

Florence Vassy, the woman he was supposed to marry.

The chess championship.

His reputation.

His title.

That was what mattered, wasn't it? He couldn't recover from five consecutive losses. There was no possible way- not in this state, not buzzing with that manic energy that he'd kept at bay for so many years now.

I have a name you bastard-

He cringed, clapping his hands over his ears as though that would keep the voices at bay. The voice, rather, because there'd only ever been the one and what a one it was. A sarcastic jackass of a voice that never seemed to go away, alarmingly like his own, but not him at all.

God damn it, but he'd lost his mind too.

He had his girlfriend, his title, his sanity- What else was Sergievsky going to take from him?

The American didn't want to think about the other things that he had lost, the financial security, the possibility that the spark in the Russians dark eyes as they met his had really been what he had suspected-

No. Now was not the time to be thinking about expressionless, goody two-shoes, ever-so-polite communists. He was angry enough as it was.

Florence. Think of Florence. But that wasn't much better… Who would have thought that the woman who had stayed faithfully by his side for seven years would run off with a Soviet the minute he left her alone?

Seven fucking years of playing pretend, like they could really make it work, like they actually believed that one day he'd be able to commit to anything so female as her, like his father wasn't so perfectly fucking accurate.

They just went on pretending- and look where it got him.

The walls around him seemed too tall, looming over his head and bearing down like a prison cell, their ornate wallpaper taunting him. Another random piece of hotel furniture would have joined the- what was it? Probably a lamp, yup, it was the lamp on the nightstand- lamp that he had already murdered against that fancy gold-leaf and cream patterns, but somehow Freddie managed to keep his head. He ran his shaking hands through his short hair, grimacing at the sweat that coated his fingers.

Ugh. He paced to the other end of the room, then back, legs restless. If he didn't want to be reduced to a raving psychopath pacing in tight circles and ranting to himself about the politics twisting his arms behind him and leaving him helpless during the game, he needed to get out of this stuffy room.

Freddie was just about sick of proving the press right.

"Unprovoked Yankee aggression my ass," he seethed under his breath.

Whirling around, he stormed back out of the bedroom without another thought, door left wide open behind him. It's not as though he had anything left worth stealing.

How dare she.

He couldn't stop the phrase from spinning through his mind, over and over, ricocheting off of the inside of his skull and working him into a fit. How dare she!

How dare she leave me!

Freddie had always forseen a day that he would tire of his second, leave her side- only in the darkest recesses of his mind did he allow himself to fear that the opposite might prove to be true. Florence Vassy, petite Hungarian-born personal assistant-

Gentle companion? Right. Fuck that man, you need to hit the clubs, go get drunk-

Get out. Get out of my head.

It's MY head, actually, you flamboyant little closet case.

Shut up.

How about… no?

Freddie swallowed thickly, imagining the smirk creeping onto his own lips in that infuriating voice-

What, is that all you've got, chessboy? Bring it. Show me what you're made of, I can take you. I'm ten times the star you're ever going to be-

Shut UP!

Staying upright was suddenly a challenge, and Freddie wanted to just slump against the nearest wall and sink to the ground and bury his face in his knees. Shuddering violently, he just barely resisted the urge to slap himself across the face as he walked, no paced- fuck he was still pacing and he wasn't even cooped up in his room alone anymore and fuck, but this was bad bad bad bad-

A shoulder knocked into his and he spun, snarling, his head swirling dizzily with colors and words that weren't his or maybe they were-

Well what did I say? He's out of his tree-

"Trumper? I was just-"

He couldn't even spare a disdainful glance, couldn't even find the space in his head to be aroused by the fair-skinned, surprised face of Anatoly Sergievsky before he was pushing blindly past him and stumbling down the hall. His coordination was shot. He wasn't going to last much longer-

He's finally flipped and between you and me-

Damn right you're not, Freddie-bear.

"Hey- Wait! Where are you going? Come back-"

He couldn't shake the feeling that the disturbed look on Anatoly's face meant that he looked about as crazy as he felt, but he had to keep going because if he stopped then- then-

He didn't know what then.

He's no hope of retaining his crown in this frame of mind-

No, he obviously didn't, and here he was proving them right again.

Fuck. Damn Florence. Damn Anatoly. Damn his mother, his father, damn Walter and Molokov, damn the press, damn the voices in his head-

In fact he shouldn't have come here, he should have resigned.

Sneakers slapping the pavement as he finally made his way down the stairs and right out of the building, right into the darkening streets into the warm glow of the sunset and the streetlights that were just beginning to come on. The traffic, the voices in the background, they all melted into white noise as the voice got louder, taunting him.

What, no smartass retorts? Come on. I know you've got better than that, Fred.

Get out, get out of my head…

But Freddie! I've always been here! Aren't we friends?

Every condescending word was enough to make him want to pull his hair out. On the verge of a panic attack, he found himself swearing under his breath as he knocked into people, cursed loudly at to watch where he was going.

Please… Please just get out. I need to be alone…

I can help with that.

He blinked and suddenly he realized that he had ducked into an alley without even realizing it, leaning against a wall as his labored breathing echoed in the still air all around him, the buzzing in his ears rising to ear-shattering levels as his panic attack overtook him. His hands were held out before him and he stared at them helplessly as they trembled, swallowing down the sudden paralyzing fear.

No- please, make it stop…

Whimpering, he clutched his head in his hands and sank to the ground, eyes squeezed shut tightly as the blackness began closing in around him.

Sure thing.

Choking back bile he looked on in amazement as the shaking ceased, the world coming back into focus- he tried to move his hands, sit up straight, but he couldn't. He was paralyzed, looking out through the eyes of another person-

Oh. Fuck.

WHAT DID YOU DO-?

Only what you asked me to do, Freddie. Come on. You trust me. You know me. I'm your buddy. Roommates, remember? Up here.

Seemingly of it's own volition, one of his hands came up to tap an index finger lightly on his skull, his mouth pulling into the smirk he'd been imagining earlier-

It's all over.

Damn the cocky bastard of a voice in his head.

Damn him. Damn Freddie.

Damn…

Roger.