63 - En Prise
Title: En Prise
Characters: Russia/America
Rating: R, for sex.
Summary: 1972 - Fischer seals his lead against Soviet player Spassky in the Match of the Century, and Russia gives America an impromptu chess lesson.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Reykjavic, Iceland. August, 1972.
The horses.
America called them the horses.
He sat next to Russia, watched as the tournament officials laid out the board, black on one side, white on the other, and said around a mouthful of ice, "I though the horses went on the outside."
Goddamn horses and his player had just taken Spassky's bishop.
Russia's fingers curled into the underside of his metal chair. He leaned forward, watched Spassky's hand hover over his remaining rook; hover, hover and drop without touching it. A little snarl of frustration, and Russia slammed a hard look at America.
"How are you doing this?" he hissed.
"Doing what?" America whispered back. He sucked at his soda. The slurp drew flinches and glares from the other spectators. "Am I winning?"
Russia's eyes narrowed, and his fingers crept to the line of buttons on America's shirt. Gripped. "I am not in the mood for this, America." He glanced back to the board, set his teeth. Spassky had moved and not only had Russia missed it, but the whole thing was wrong. Your queen, you idiot, she's as good as taken--
He jerked America in an inch without looking at him. Snarled, "You drugged him, didn't you? Some kind of--of--CIA hallucinogenic and you're cheating with it--"
America set his cup on the floor before he dropped it. "You think I'm using mind control drugs on your player?" he giggled. "Maybe he's just not that good, huh?"
A harsh "shhh" from the back row.
Russia saw red. "I will kill you," he whispered. "That is a promise. Insult Spassky again and I will drag you out to the center of this room and gut you with Fischer's king, and I won't be sorry--"
At the board, Spassky lost another pawn.
"God damn it!"
This time, heads turned. Russia flushed.
"This Fischer kid must be pretty good, huh," America marveled. "Like, he's taking pieces left and right."
A tick at the board. Fischer squirmed in his chair like an excitable child. Spassky went greyer.
America tilted back in his chair. "What are the little castle-looking dudes called again?"
Russia's hands clenched into fists on his knees. "Rooks," he growled. He could feel the word in his ribs. "Rooks, and you don't deserve to know that because you will forget it by the time the match is over!"
Spassky's fingers floated over his remaining pieces like a pianist lost in the middle of a melody. Russia's gut jerked. "Did you kill his cat? Or--Or leave a bloody chicken on his doorstep, or threaten his--" He stopped, turned to America, half-wild with delirious certainty. "You threatened his family, didn't you? God, I never thought you would sink this low--"
"Oh my God, Russia, I didn't threaten anybody's family--"
"Spassky doesn't lose!" Russia seethed. "I don't lose!" Another tick from the board. He flinched.
America's gaze flickered over him. He grinned. "Well, I guess you do now."
When the black cleared from Russia's eyes, he had grabbed the front of America's shirt and dragged him in until their noses were touching. He glared into America's eyes from an inch away. "I will bury you."
Spassky lost another pawn.
---
"So Fischer's really in the lead now, huh? With a two point lead? Or a...one and a half point...you know, the point system totally doesn't make any sense to me..."
The door to their hotel room chunked shut behind them. America tossed his jacket over the dresser, then threw Russia a brilliant smile over his shoulder. "But hey, Russia, there's still lots of games left! Your guy could still win, maybe!"
"I don't suppose room service will be accommodating if I leave a pillowcase full of your limbs in the bathroom." Russia muttered. He jerked off his coat and slapped it over the back of the desk chair.
America twined his arms around one of Russia's. "You take this game way too seriously, you know that? It's just chess."
Russia yanked away. "There is no such thing as 'just chess,'" he snarled. He snatched at his coat, dug around in the pockets, jerked out a chess piece, a king, heavy and black and carved from soapstone. From a set Lenin had given him, long ago, and apparently it wasn't quite the good luck charm he had thought it was, since Spassky had made a fucking spectacle of himself-- Russia waved it under America's nose. "This. Do you know what this is?"
America fell back a step. "A chess piece?" he tried, bewildered. "Um, a king or queen I guess? It's got a little crown--"
"A king! I could forgive you for the rooks, but this is a king, America! A child could tell you that! It is the single most important piece on the board! The point of the game!" He jabbed the air in front of America's face with it. "You don't deserve to win, if you don't know what you are playing for!"
America smirked, and his eyes tracked the king as it wove through the air in front of him. "It's good enough if I know that I'm playing to beat you, isn't it?"
Russia's fingers tightened on the piece. "No, it isn't." His next stab swerved dangerously close to America's eye. "You've said to me a hundred times that you can learn anything there is to know about life from the game of baseball, yes? Well, you're wrong. Chess will teach you everything. And my players have been students for decades! You just happened to have a socially-stunted prodigy on your side!"
America caught and gripped Russia's hand. "Have you ever played checkers? I'm like, way better at checkers, and it's a lot less confusing."
Still that grin. The bastard was doing this on purpose!
Russia loomed over him. "Would you like me to prove that all the threats I've made this afternoon have not been idle?" He jerked his wrist in America's grip. "I will shove this down your throat. And it will be no great loss. I still have a white one left at home."
"Oh, go ahead," America melted in towards him six inches all of a sudden and--
--Licked up the side of the king, his eyes on Russia's.
Russia gaped at him. Something hot and sticky opened up inside his ribs. He wanted to pull his hand back, wipe the piece on his slacks, and punch America in the face. He wanted to sit him down on the bed, and explain what a knight was.
He wanted--
He made a low, hungry little sound, and pushed the king past America's lips.
America grinned around it until Russia's fingers pressed against his mouth. He coughed, once, quiet--Russia felt the resistance as the king's crown touched the back of America's soft palate. Then America bent his neck and closed his lips around Russia's fingertips.
A sharp shock snapped down Russia's spine at that warmth. Only the red felt pad at the king's base was still visible. Russia felt the thing shift in his fingers as America wound his tongue around its neck. He held America's eyes, swayed in until their chests brushed on every exhale.
After a few more seconds, America drew back with a wet and quiet sound. A red smile. "So, all right," he drawled. "That's a king."
Russia let out a deep, shuddering laugh, and slid a hand into America's hair. He pulled. "So you can be taught."
"Maybe? I mean--have you got a whole chess set hidden in that coat?" America leaned forward, against Russia's grip, and nuzzled their lower lips together. "'Cause I'm a really kinetic learner."
"Regrettably, I do not have the pocket space for thirty-two pieces. Or even sixteen, for that matter. So..." The fingers of Russia's free hand slid to the buttons of America's shirt, popped two, three, four. "I will try to instruct you in another way."
America wrapped his hands in the front of Russia's shirt and walked them back to the bed in three sharp steps. "I am feeling super receptive right now." He dropped back. Russia toppled over him.
"I will do my best to take advantage of this rare occasion," Russia smirked. He dropped to one elbow and kissed down the side of America's neck. "There are sixty-four squares on a chessboard...Eight rows, and eight columns," he breathed. A nuzzled bite above America's pulse. "Now, how many pieces does each player have? I gave you this answer just a moment ago."
"Oh my God are you really going to teach me chess?" America gasped. He tore down the line of Russia's buttons and didn't stop when he reached his pants. "Um--fuck--sixteen, you said?"
"Very good." Russia let America drag his shirt off his shoulders. The tails of his scarf tangled between them. He let their hips rest together, nudged deep. "And I can only teach you how to play chess. To teach you 'chess', as you said, would take a very, very long time." He dragged his nails down America's chest.
"Oh my God--" America buckled up against him. He jerked his knees open wide. "--You are not gonna start in on that whole 'chess is the embodiment of the Marxist-Leninist system' with me, because, okay, there is a no communist propaganda in the bedroom rule, starting right now--" He kicked his shoes over the footboard and dragged his hands into Russia's hair.
Russia bent under America's hands like a pleased cat. "They say that chess is a reflection of the ideal Soviet man," he exhaled, hot. America tugged Russia's pants lower on his hips. "Serious-minded, logical, and scientific, even in his leisure activities..."
"What did I just say," America groaned, and Russia settled snug between his thighs.
A quiet half minute, then, as they wriggled out of the rest of their clothes. Russia pitched everything over the side of the bed--and caught his scarf before it could fall. He couldn't teach without tools. "The files," he ground out. His skin slid smooth back down against America. "Are labeled from left to right with the letters A to H." America's fingers against his ribcage. Their breathing skid and caught. "And the ranks are labeled similarly, but with the numbers one through eight. What do you think is the purpose of those labels, America?"
"--Files and ranks?" America pitched his glasses onto the nightstand and buried a kiss at the corner of Russia's mouth. His hands sprawled down the wedge of Russia's back.
Russia gave America a pinch, just above his hipbone. "The rows and columns. Rows--ranks--are vertical, the columns--files--are horizontal. And they are labeled with numbers or letters, as I said."
"Ow--ohh, ranks and files, like an army!" America hooked one leg over Russia's hip and drew them together in a long, sweltering rush. Then: "I guess the two sides are kind of like an army--I mean two armies--with the knights and castles and stuff?"
It took Russia a moment to realize that America had never made that connection before.
"You are very lucky that I am already naked, or I would leave right now," Russia growled. He ground their hips into one another hard enough to bring spots to his eyes. It ached on their bones. "Now answer my question. Why do you think the board is labeled the way it is?" His lips found America's earlobe.
"Fuck this so much," America managed. He bent his head away from Russia, turned his neck into an exposed line. "Uh...it's for...fuck, I don't know, Russia, writing down the moves like those officials were doing...?"
Russia rewarded him with a series of sharp kisses, starting just below his jaw and carrying on down the curve of his neck. "Yes. Taken together, a number and a letter correspond to a single square on the board." He nuzzled the tip of his nose into the ticklish sweep of America's neck and shoulder. "So I could move my bishop from c1 to e3. Speaking of which--" He sat up, suddenly, collected his scarf, and spread it across his lap. He wound it into a slipknot and noose. "Which way does a bishop move?"
That giddy shiver tore down America's left side as Russia touched his teeth to the join of his neck. "F-for Christ's sakes, Russia, is this really what you want to be thinking about right now--?" America nuzzled their hips together.
A wash of heat spread through him--Russia gasped. Collected himself. He slipped the scarf over America's head and turned it around so that the slipknot rested at the base of his skull. "I will take that as an 'I don't know'." The trailing end of the scarf went twice around the headboard before he tied it off.
It was a leash. It tightened for every inch America moved down the bed.
America's hand flew up to the scarf: he turned wide eyes up at Russia. "I don't even know which ones the bishops are," he pleaded. He tucked his fingers between the noose and his neck.
"Mercy, then," Russia murmured. He kissed him. "Just this once." He broke away, pushed himself up, rifled through the drawer in the bedside table. That tube, there.
He climbed back over America-- "Now, pay attention--" --And slid a finger into him.
America made a soft sound and dropped his hand from his leash. His left heel braced against the bed.
"The bishops are the pointed pieces," Russia murmured. "Each player has two of them. They also have two rooks, and two knights--" Another finger, a deep nudge inside of America. "A king and a queen, and eight pawns." Russia kissed the angle of America's left knee. "Now...which are the castles, and which are the 'horses?'"
America's back arched. The upswept line of the scarf went taut. "Th-the castles are rooks, you said." His voice trembled. "And the...horses are--a-are knights? But England told me that rooks were birds--"
A tender flicker in Russia's chest. He bent nearly double and pressed a gentle kiss to America's stomach. "The pieces used to be chariots, centuries ago. They were called rukhs, then." A third finger, finally, and he spread them.
"O-oh..." America exhaled. His eyes winced shut. That hot flush had opened all over his skin: his thighs, and chest, and cheeks, and even his cock. He twinged every time Russia twisted his fingers, and knotted his hands deeper in the blanket.
"Pay attention, America." Russia repeated. He drew out of him, slow, and watched America relax by inches as Russia slicked himself up. The last flickers faded from the corners of America's eyes as Russia gripped America's shoulder with a heavy hand and pressed into him. He breathed out hot against America's neck. America drew his legs up sharp, bent--Russia could feel America's knees pressing against his ribcage.
America gasped once into Russia's hair, then buried his cheek against it. "I-I-I'm listening," he got out. A tight throb.
Russia thrust into America, once, slow, deep. "The rook may move any number of empty spaces to the front, back, left, or right..." His voice was breath-filled and shaking. He set a hand on America's hip. "A bishop moves any number of empty spaces diagonally. And a queen--" He groaned as America's nails raked between his shoulder blades. "A-A queen may move as she likes. Any direction along a rank, file, or diagonal. Do you understand?"
"H-how am I seriously supposed to remember this--" America clenched against him, half-laughing, a kiss pressed against the top of Russia's ear. "C-can we like--" Russia ground into him; America's breath stopped up and cracked for a few seconds. "--Christ--pick up with this later?"
"I don't...don't imagine you will be able to talk for much longer anyway," Russia exhaled. He levered America down an inch, so he jerked tighter onto Russia's cock; the leash tightened accordingly. "But to finish--a knight moves--" A hot kiss. "Two spaces forward, backward, left, or right and one space perpendicular." Another. "It's an L-shape."
"'M gonna forget this in five minutes..." America wrapped his arms around Russia's waist, low, bore him in tighter.
Russia felt America's heel slip against his tailbone; made a quiet sound, and sealed their mouths together. He gripped America's hips and felt the bones beneath his hands. A deep rush in, and he dragged America down to meet him.
The scarf stretched. A deeper color swept into America's flush, and his mouth went prickled and full. He moaned against Russia's lips with the little air he had left in his lungs--it would not be easy to replace--and then he was struggling against Russia's cock for more.
Russia still did not understand it: America's euphoric struggle for air, the way he would rasp and wheeze and scramble and harden every moment--but he loved it. The sweet jump of America's throat beneath Russia's palm made his heart flutter like nothing else ever had. He watched the scarf, and the line it dug into America's skin, and the throbbing flush which opened all the way to America's temples. He asked, quiet, curious: "Does it hurt?"
America nodded, frantic, and then a second later he shook his head. A brittle gasp, for a teaspoon of air. He didn't have the breath explain himself. Russia surged into him again, and America's fingers dug into his shoulders hard enough to bruise. Russia hoped he would have purple marks painted all over his skin, bright and aching. He touched them at night, in the dark, when America wasn't with him.
His hands skimmed against the texture of America's ribcage, spanned either side and dragged down with heavy fingertips. Russia's breath sang out of him as his hips met America's, heavy and over and over again. His vision tripped, skidded, and he closed his eyes and clung to America.
America made no sounds, gave up no rasping breaths: there was only Russia's weak moans and teeth-clenched gasps, and the sharp clap of skin striking skin. America writhed in his arms. When he needed it, when he absolutely needed it, he clawed one hand up to his throat and dragged the scarf down, half an inch, just enough to suck down one breath and let it out on coughing and whimpers. The rest of the time he gripped at Russia and fucked back as hard as he could. Russia tightened his hold on America, jerked, thrust in once more and dragged their hips together--
His climax, when it came, was sudden, hard and deep and rolling up from the base of his spine. He cupped America's neck through the scarf and pressed their mouths together. America's lips were swollen, and too-warm; and it still felt lovely and strange to kiss him without the hot and rhythmic rush of breath against his cheek. Russia nuzzled into it. America flinched beneath him, over and over again, and gave twitching, weak little thrusts up as Russia softened and emptied against him.
As it passed, Russia became aware of America tugging on his hair--America's erection pressed against his stomach. "America," Russia exhaled, half in and half out of their kiss. He nudged two fingers under the scarf, held it up from America's neck. A brilliant shiver still knocked between his vertebrae. "America?"
His fingers drifted down the center of America's chest, over his belly, and hovered just above his cock.
America gasped: hard, cold, lunging breaths. Then the coughing started. He strained up towards Russia's hand, and a miserable whimper skidded past his teeth when Russia's fingertips barely grazed against him.
Russia loosened the leash a bit further, and then drew out of America, gentle; he slid down the line of America's body, touching and kissing all the way. "America," he murmured again. His words gusted across the other nation's cock. "How does a knight move?"
There was silence for several seconds--not silence; ragged breath and hoarse little sounds of need, but no words. And then America pressed a hand over his eyes and started to laugh, unvocal and helpless.
Russia felt himself smile. He drew his fingers up the inside of America's right thigh. "It is a serious question."
America shuddered, and a quieter breath flew into him. He twisted his fingers into Russia's hair. "I-I don't remember," he rasped, still shaking on laughter. "Oh God..."
Russia ghosted a kiss across the head of America's erection. "I hope that is not the case. Or you are going to have trouble getting to sleep tonight."
"It's an L," America gasped. "Fuck--" A lightweight quiver went through him. He massaged his fingertips against Russia's scalp, his hips pulsing up into air. "Fuck--"
"Excellent." Russia drifted a hand between America's legs, cupped him. "And which ones are the knights?"
"Th-they're the horses, you son of a bitch--" America laughed, jerked, writhed, his heels skidding on the bed.
A pulse of something which felt very much like happiness. Russia swallowed America with his next breath. He felt with his tongue into all the places he remembered, nuzzling and teasing and turning America's back into a knot against the bed. America came fast, scalding; a hoarse groan caught in his throat.
Russia felt America massaging his hair between his fingers, gentle and reverent as his hips pulsed, and pulsed, and pulsed. When it passed--when America's bones turned molten gold--Russia climbed up alongside him. America dropped in against Russia's chest with a huff. Russia's scarf still bound him to the headboard.
"So that's what you did to me when Fischer won one game." America's voice was very rough. "What're you gonna do if he wins the tournament?"
"Challenge you to a rematch and beat you myself." Russia touched his teeth to America's lower lip. "And then, in all likelihood, fuck you until you forget what a chess board looks like."
America buried his face in Russia's shoulder. His shoulders shook with laughter. Then, "Fine, but after that--I want a checkers rematch. And we'll see how long you last."
+++
--The 1972 World Chess Championship became a Cold War set piece when Russian defending champion Boris Spassky lost his title to American-born Bobby Fischer. Billed as "the match of the century," Fischer's victory made him the first American world champion in 40 years, and ended 24 years of Soviet domination at the world level.
Since Fischer did indeed go on to win the tournament, we can assume that Soviet domination continued unabated in its more personal manifestation in Russia and America's hotel room.
---
--Bonus message from Pyrrhic: Oh my God I only just figured out the title (Wizard always comes up with the titles). En prise is a chess term for an undefended piece which can be captured. The slang term for this same situation is 'hanging.' Holy shit that's clever.
--Second bonus message from Pyrrhic: also I only just found out that the Russian term for the knights actually is 'horses?' See, this is why we have a Staff Russian Person and why we should consult with her more often. We're going to pretend we knew that already and say that the scene still makes sense because the conversation was happening in English with English etymology, but we were wrong and we know it and now you know it, too. We should have gone with Bishops/"the pointy pieces" or something instead, although in Russian those are called 'elephants' and I give up, this game is bananas.
+++
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This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.
Characters: Russia/America
Rating: R, for sex.
Summary: 1972 - Fischer seals his lead against Soviet player Spassky in the Match of the Century, and Russia gives America an impromptu chess lesson.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Reykjavic, Iceland. August, 1972.
The horses.
America called them the horses.
He sat next to Russia, watched as the tournament officials laid out the board, black on one side, white on the other, and said around a mouthful of ice, "I though the horses went on the outside."
Goddamn horses and his player had just taken Spassky's bishop.
Russia's fingers curled into the underside of his metal chair. He leaned forward, watched Spassky's hand hover over his remaining rook; hover, hover and drop without touching it. A little snarl of frustration, and Russia slammed a hard look at America.
"How are you doing this?" he hissed.
"Doing what?" America whispered back. He sucked at his soda. The slurp drew flinches and glares from the other spectators. "Am I winning?"
Russia's eyes narrowed, and his fingers crept to the line of buttons on America's shirt. Gripped. "I am not in the mood for this, America." He glanced back to the board, set his teeth. Spassky had moved and not only had Russia missed it, but the whole thing was wrong. Your queen, you idiot, she's as good as taken--
He jerked America in an inch without looking at him. Snarled, "You drugged him, didn't you? Some kind of--of--CIA hallucinogenic and you're cheating with it--"
America set his cup on the floor before he dropped it. "You think I'm using mind control drugs on your player?" he giggled. "Maybe he's just not that good, huh?"
A harsh "shhh" from the back row.
Russia saw red. "I will kill you," he whispered. "That is a promise. Insult Spassky again and I will drag you out to the center of this room and gut you with Fischer's king, and I won't be sorry--"
At the board, Spassky lost another pawn.
"God damn it!"
This time, heads turned. Russia flushed.
"This Fischer kid must be pretty good, huh," America marveled. "Like, he's taking pieces left and right."
A tick at the board. Fischer squirmed in his chair like an excitable child. Spassky went greyer.
America tilted back in his chair. "What are the little castle-looking dudes called again?"
Russia's hands clenched into fists on his knees. "Rooks," he growled. He could feel the word in his ribs. "Rooks, and you don't deserve to know that because you will forget it by the time the match is over!"
Spassky's fingers floated over his remaining pieces like a pianist lost in the middle of a melody. Russia's gut jerked. "Did you kill his cat? Or--Or leave a bloody chicken on his doorstep, or threaten his--" He stopped, turned to America, half-wild with delirious certainty. "You threatened his family, didn't you? God, I never thought you would sink this low--"
"Oh my God, Russia, I didn't threaten anybody's family--"
"Spassky doesn't lose!" Russia seethed. "I don't lose!" Another tick from the board. He flinched.
America's gaze flickered over him. He grinned. "Well, I guess you do now."
When the black cleared from Russia's eyes, he had grabbed the front of America's shirt and dragged him in until their noses were touching. He glared into America's eyes from an inch away. "I will bury you."
Spassky lost another pawn.
---
"So Fischer's really in the lead now, huh? With a two point lead? Or a...one and a half point...you know, the point system totally doesn't make any sense to me..."
The door to their hotel room chunked shut behind them. America tossed his jacket over the dresser, then threw Russia a brilliant smile over his shoulder. "But hey, Russia, there's still lots of games left! Your guy could still win, maybe!"
"I don't suppose room service will be accommodating if I leave a pillowcase full of your limbs in the bathroom." Russia muttered. He jerked off his coat and slapped it over the back of the desk chair.
America twined his arms around one of Russia's. "You take this game way too seriously, you know that? It's just chess."
Russia yanked away. "There is no such thing as 'just chess,'" he snarled. He snatched at his coat, dug around in the pockets, jerked out a chess piece, a king, heavy and black and carved from soapstone. From a set Lenin had given him, long ago, and apparently it wasn't quite the good luck charm he had thought it was, since Spassky had made a fucking spectacle of himself-- Russia waved it under America's nose. "This. Do you know what this is?"
America fell back a step. "A chess piece?" he tried, bewildered. "Um, a king or queen I guess? It's got a little crown--"
"A king! I could forgive you for the rooks, but this is a king, America! A child could tell you that! It is the single most important piece on the board! The point of the game!" He jabbed the air in front of America's face with it. "You don't deserve to win, if you don't know what you are playing for!"
America smirked, and his eyes tracked the king as it wove through the air in front of him. "It's good enough if I know that I'm playing to beat you, isn't it?"
Russia's fingers tightened on the piece. "No, it isn't." His next stab swerved dangerously close to America's eye. "You've said to me a hundred times that you can learn anything there is to know about life from the game of baseball, yes? Well, you're wrong. Chess will teach you everything. And my players have been students for decades! You just happened to have a socially-stunted prodigy on your side!"
America caught and gripped Russia's hand. "Have you ever played checkers? I'm like, way better at checkers, and it's a lot less confusing."
Still that grin. The bastard was doing this on purpose!
Russia loomed over him. "Would you like me to prove that all the threats I've made this afternoon have not been idle?" He jerked his wrist in America's grip. "I will shove this down your throat. And it will be no great loss. I still have a white one left at home."
"Oh, go ahead," America melted in towards him six inches all of a sudden and--
--Licked up the side of the king, his eyes on Russia's.
Russia gaped at him. Something hot and sticky opened up inside his ribs. He wanted to pull his hand back, wipe the piece on his slacks, and punch America in the face. He wanted to sit him down on the bed, and explain what a knight was.
He wanted--
He made a low, hungry little sound, and pushed the king past America's lips.
America grinned around it until Russia's fingers pressed against his mouth. He coughed, once, quiet--Russia felt the resistance as the king's crown touched the back of America's soft palate. Then America bent his neck and closed his lips around Russia's fingertips.
A sharp shock snapped down Russia's spine at that warmth. Only the red felt pad at the king's base was still visible. Russia felt the thing shift in his fingers as America wound his tongue around its neck. He held America's eyes, swayed in until their chests brushed on every exhale.
After a few more seconds, America drew back with a wet and quiet sound. A red smile. "So, all right," he drawled. "That's a king."
Russia let out a deep, shuddering laugh, and slid a hand into America's hair. He pulled. "So you can be taught."
"Maybe? I mean--have you got a whole chess set hidden in that coat?" America leaned forward, against Russia's grip, and nuzzled their lower lips together. "'Cause I'm a really kinetic learner."
"Regrettably, I do not have the pocket space for thirty-two pieces. Or even sixteen, for that matter. So..." The fingers of Russia's free hand slid to the buttons of America's shirt, popped two, three, four. "I will try to instruct you in another way."
America wrapped his hands in the front of Russia's shirt and walked them back to the bed in three sharp steps. "I am feeling super receptive right now." He dropped back. Russia toppled over him.
"I will do my best to take advantage of this rare occasion," Russia smirked. He dropped to one elbow and kissed down the side of America's neck. "There are sixty-four squares on a chessboard...Eight rows, and eight columns," he breathed. A nuzzled bite above America's pulse. "Now, how many pieces does each player have? I gave you this answer just a moment ago."
"Oh my God are you really going to teach me chess?" America gasped. He tore down the line of Russia's buttons and didn't stop when he reached his pants. "Um--fuck--sixteen, you said?"
"Very good." Russia let America drag his shirt off his shoulders. The tails of his scarf tangled between them. He let their hips rest together, nudged deep. "And I can only teach you how to play chess. To teach you 'chess', as you said, would take a very, very long time." He dragged his nails down America's chest.
"Oh my God--" America buckled up against him. He jerked his knees open wide. "--You are not gonna start in on that whole 'chess is the embodiment of the Marxist-Leninist system' with me, because, okay, there is a no communist propaganda in the bedroom rule, starting right now--" He kicked his shoes over the footboard and dragged his hands into Russia's hair.
Russia bent under America's hands like a pleased cat. "They say that chess is a reflection of the ideal Soviet man," he exhaled, hot. America tugged Russia's pants lower on his hips. "Serious-minded, logical, and scientific, even in his leisure activities..."
"What did I just say," America groaned, and Russia settled snug between his thighs.
A quiet half minute, then, as they wriggled out of the rest of their clothes. Russia pitched everything over the side of the bed--and caught his scarf before it could fall. He couldn't teach without tools. "The files," he ground out. His skin slid smooth back down against America. "Are labeled from left to right with the letters A to H." America's fingers against his ribcage. Their breathing skid and caught. "And the ranks are labeled similarly, but with the numbers one through eight. What do you think is the purpose of those labels, America?"
"--Files and ranks?" America pitched his glasses onto the nightstand and buried a kiss at the corner of Russia's mouth. His hands sprawled down the wedge of Russia's back.
Russia gave America a pinch, just above his hipbone. "The rows and columns. Rows--ranks--are vertical, the columns--files--are horizontal. And they are labeled with numbers or letters, as I said."
"Ow--ohh, ranks and files, like an army!" America hooked one leg over Russia's hip and drew them together in a long, sweltering rush. Then: "I guess the two sides are kind of like an army--I mean two armies--with the knights and castles and stuff?"
It took Russia a moment to realize that America had never made that connection before.
"You are very lucky that I am already naked, or I would leave right now," Russia growled. He ground their hips into one another hard enough to bring spots to his eyes. It ached on their bones. "Now answer my question. Why do you think the board is labeled the way it is?" His lips found America's earlobe.
"Fuck this so much," America managed. He bent his head away from Russia, turned his neck into an exposed line. "Uh...it's for...fuck, I don't know, Russia, writing down the moves like those officials were doing...?"
Russia rewarded him with a series of sharp kisses, starting just below his jaw and carrying on down the curve of his neck. "Yes. Taken together, a number and a letter correspond to a single square on the board." He nuzzled the tip of his nose into the ticklish sweep of America's neck and shoulder. "So I could move my bishop from c1 to e3. Speaking of which--" He sat up, suddenly, collected his scarf, and spread it across his lap. He wound it into a slipknot and noose. "Which way does a bishop move?"
That giddy shiver tore down America's left side as Russia touched his teeth to the join of his neck. "F-for Christ's sakes, Russia, is this really what you want to be thinking about right now--?" America nuzzled their hips together.
A wash of heat spread through him--Russia gasped. Collected himself. He slipped the scarf over America's head and turned it around so that the slipknot rested at the base of his skull. "I will take that as an 'I don't know'." The trailing end of the scarf went twice around the headboard before he tied it off.
It was a leash. It tightened for every inch America moved down the bed.
America's hand flew up to the scarf: he turned wide eyes up at Russia. "I don't even know which ones the bishops are," he pleaded. He tucked his fingers between the noose and his neck.
"Mercy, then," Russia murmured. He kissed him. "Just this once." He broke away, pushed himself up, rifled through the drawer in the bedside table. That tube, there.
He climbed back over America-- "Now, pay attention--" --And slid a finger into him.
America made a soft sound and dropped his hand from his leash. His left heel braced against the bed.
"The bishops are the pointed pieces," Russia murmured. "Each player has two of them. They also have two rooks, and two knights--" Another finger, a deep nudge inside of America. "A king and a queen, and eight pawns." Russia kissed the angle of America's left knee. "Now...which are the castles, and which are the 'horses?'"
America's back arched. The upswept line of the scarf went taut. "Th-the castles are rooks, you said." His voice trembled. "And the...horses are--a-are knights? But England told me that rooks were birds--"
A tender flicker in Russia's chest. He bent nearly double and pressed a gentle kiss to America's stomach. "The pieces used to be chariots, centuries ago. They were called rukhs, then." A third finger, finally, and he spread them.
"O-oh..." America exhaled. His eyes winced shut. That hot flush had opened all over his skin: his thighs, and chest, and cheeks, and even his cock. He twinged every time Russia twisted his fingers, and knotted his hands deeper in the blanket.
"Pay attention, America." Russia repeated. He drew out of him, slow, and watched America relax by inches as Russia slicked himself up. The last flickers faded from the corners of America's eyes as Russia gripped America's shoulder with a heavy hand and pressed into him. He breathed out hot against America's neck. America drew his legs up sharp, bent--Russia could feel America's knees pressing against his ribcage.
America gasped once into Russia's hair, then buried his cheek against it. "I-I-I'm listening," he got out. A tight throb.
Russia thrust into America, once, slow, deep. "The rook may move any number of empty spaces to the front, back, left, or right..." His voice was breath-filled and shaking. He set a hand on America's hip. "A bishop moves any number of empty spaces diagonally. And a queen--" He groaned as America's nails raked between his shoulder blades. "A-A queen may move as she likes. Any direction along a rank, file, or diagonal. Do you understand?"
"H-how am I seriously supposed to remember this--" America clenched against him, half-laughing, a kiss pressed against the top of Russia's ear. "C-can we like--" Russia ground into him; America's breath stopped up and cracked for a few seconds. "--Christ--pick up with this later?"
"I don't...don't imagine you will be able to talk for much longer anyway," Russia exhaled. He levered America down an inch, so he jerked tighter onto Russia's cock; the leash tightened accordingly. "But to finish--a knight moves--" A hot kiss. "Two spaces forward, backward, left, or right and one space perpendicular." Another. "It's an L-shape."
"'M gonna forget this in five minutes..." America wrapped his arms around Russia's waist, low, bore him in tighter.
Russia felt America's heel slip against his tailbone; made a quiet sound, and sealed their mouths together. He gripped America's hips and felt the bones beneath his hands. A deep rush in, and he dragged America down to meet him.
The scarf stretched. A deeper color swept into America's flush, and his mouth went prickled and full. He moaned against Russia's lips with the little air he had left in his lungs--it would not be easy to replace--and then he was struggling against Russia's cock for more.
Russia still did not understand it: America's euphoric struggle for air, the way he would rasp and wheeze and scramble and harden every moment--but he loved it. The sweet jump of America's throat beneath Russia's palm made his heart flutter like nothing else ever had. He watched the scarf, and the line it dug into America's skin, and the throbbing flush which opened all the way to America's temples. He asked, quiet, curious: "Does it hurt?"
America nodded, frantic, and then a second later he shook his head. A brittle gasp, for a teaspoon of air. He didn't have the breath explain himself. Russia surged into him again, and America's fingers dug into his shoulders hard enough to bruise. Russia hoped he would have purple marks painted all over his skin, bright and aching. He touched them at night, in the dark, when America wasn't with him.
His hands skimmed against the texture of America's ribcage, spanned either side and dragged down with heavy fingertips. Russia's breath sang out of him as his hips met America's, heavy and over and over again. His vision tripped, skidded, and he closed his eyes and clung to America.
America made no sounds, gave up no rasping breaths: there was only Russia's weak moans and teeth-clenched gasps, and the sharp clap of skin striking skin. America writhed in his arms. When he needed it, when he absolutely needed it, he clawed one hand up to his throat and dragged the scarf down, half an inch, just enough to suck down one breath and let it out on coughing and whimpers. The rest of the time he gripped at Russia and fucked back as hard as he could. Russia tightened his hold on America, jerked, thrust in once more and dragged their hips together--
His climax, when it came, was sudden, hard and deep and rolling up from the base of his spine. He cupped America's neck through the scarf and pressed their mouths together. America's lips were swollen, and too-warm; and it still felt lovely and strange to kiss him without the hot and rhythmic rush of breath against his cheek. Russia nuzzled into it. America flinched beneath him, over and over again, and gave twitching, weak little thrusts up as Russia softened and emptied against him.
As it passed, Russia became aware of America tugging on his hair--America's erection pressed against his stomach. "America," Russia exhaled, half in and half out of their kiss. He nudged two fingers under the scarf, held it up from America's neck. A brilliant shiver still knocked between his vertebrae. "America?"
His fingers drifted down the center of America's chest, over his belly, and hovered just above his cock.
America gasped: hard, cold, lunging breaths. Then the coughing started. He strained up towards Russia's hand, and a miserable whimper skidded past his teeth when Russia's fingertips barely grazed against him.
Russia loosened the leash a bit further, and then drew out of America, gentle; he slid down the line of America's body, touching and kissing all the way. "America," he murmured again. His words gusted across the other nation's cock. "How does a knight move?"
There was silence for several seconds--not silence; ragged breath and hoarse little sounds of need, but no words. And then America pressed a hand over his eyes and started to laugh, unvocal and helpless.
Russia felt himself smile. He drew his fingers up the inside of America's right thigh. "It is a serious question."
America shuddered, and a quieter breath flew into him. He twisted his fingers into Russia's hair. "I-I don't remember," he rasped, still shaking on laughter. "Oh God..."
Russia ghosted a kiss across the head of America's erection. "I hope that is not the case. Or you are going to have trouble getting to sleep tonight."
"It's an L," America gasped. "Fuck--" A lightweight quiver went through him. He massaged his fingertips against Russia's scalp, his hips pulsing up into air. "Fuck--"
"Excellent." Russia drifted a hand between America's legs, cupped him. "And which ones are the knights?"
"Th-they're the horses, you son of a bitch--" America laughed, jerked, writhed, his heels skidding on the bed.
A pulse of something which felt very much like happiness. Russia swallowed America with his next breath. He felt with his tongue into all the places he remembered, nuzzling and teasing and turning America's back into a knot against the bed. America came fast, scalding; a hoarse groan caught in his throat.
Russia felt America massaging his hair between his fingers, gentle and reverent as his hips pulsed, and pulsed, and pulsed. When it passed--when America's bones turned molten gold--Russia climbed up alongside him. America dropped in against Russia's chest with a huff. Russia's scarf still bound him to the headboard.
"So that's what you did to me when Fischer won one game." America's voice was very rough. "What're you gonna do if he wins the tournament?"
"Challenge you to a rematch and beat you myself." Russia touched his teeth to America's lower lip. "And then, in all likelihood, fuck you until you forget what a chess board looks like."
America buried his face in Russia's shoulder. His shoulders shook with laughter. Then, "Fine, but after that--I want a checkers rematch. And we'll see how long you last."
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--The 1972 World Chess Championship became a Cold War set piece when Russian defending champion Boris Spassky lost his title to American-born Bobby Fischer. Billed as "the match of the century," Fischer's victory made him the first American world champion in 40 years, and ended 24 years of Soviet domination at the world level.
Since Fischer did indeed go on to win the tournament, we can assume that Soviet domination continued unabated in its more personal manifestation in Russia and America's hotel room.
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--Bonus message from Pyrrhic: Oh my God I only just figured out the title (Wizard always comes up with the titles). En prise is a chess term for an undefended piece which can be captured. The slang term for this same situation is 'hanging.' Holy shit that's clever.
--Second bonus message from Pyrrhic: also I only just found out that the Russian term for the knights actually is 'horses?' See, this is why we have a Staff Russian Person and why we should consult with her more often. We're going to pretend we knew that already and say that the scene still makes sense because the conversation was happening in English with English etymology, but we were wrong and we know it and now you know it, too. We should have gone with Bishops/"the pointy pieces" or something instead, although in Russian those are called 'elephants' and I give up, this game is bananas.
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This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.