You gasped when you opened your eyes. You were fully dressed, tucked up in bed as the New York morning was just beginning.

You tried to move, and with it came a colossal brick whack to your head. You winced, smacking your lips to try and erase the immense dry, stale taste in your mouth.

All you knew was that you needed water, and that meant walking to the kitchen.

You forced yourself to sit at the edge of your bed as a stabbing pain penetrated your temples. You pushed forward, placing your feet on the wooden flooring and attempting to stand—

With it came a wave of nausea.

You felt like shit. Pure, unfiltered, shit.

And it was all entirely self-inflicted. You only had yourself to blame for drinking the extortionate about of booze that you had the previous night.

Last night.

You tried to place everything—you remembered Monte's, then coming back to your apartment afterwards, but everything beyond that was a blur that you simply couldn't recall.

You urged yourself to step forward, then step again, and again—

That was when your foot whacked into something on the floor; immediately all balance went out of the window. You fell to the ground, only just putting out your arms in time to somewhat break your fall. You rolled on the floor, moaning in pain, as the urge to be sick increased evermore.

"Jesus—," A coarse voice spoke up, causing you to react way too fast than your body could bare. You halted abruptly, finally seeing what you'd slammed into—

Benny fucking Watts was on your floor, wrapped in a throw blanket from your couch, cushion placed by his head. He clutched his hand to his rib, squinting in pain.

"Why the fuck did you do that?" He groaned.

"Why the fuck are you on my floor?"

"Why the fuck did you kick me in the ribs?"

"Why—," You started, but the pounding in your head had got to an agonising level. "Just, wait," You said, willing your limbs to move. You hoisted yourself off the floor, clutching the counter as you made your way to the sink. You didn't even grab a glass, you shoved your mouth under the faucet and turned it on, letting water dribble from your mouth as you inhaled it into your system.

Your mouth started to feel normal again, after several large gulps of that fresh New York tap water. You breathed in and out, trying to ease the nausea, before you turned to oversee the rest of the apartment—

Remnants of cups and glasses littered the room, bare vinyl records sat by the record player, Benny was bundled up next to your bed, a pained expression still on his face, and in the centre of the room—

"Is that... my father's chess board?" You stuttered out.

Benny looked up at you, confusion littering his eyes. "You got it out. We played,"

"We played?" You said, trying desperately to remember what had happened, but nothing was coming up.

"Do you seriously not remember?" He said, and you sent him a frown. Benny got himself up, stretching his arms over his head, his abdomen just visible as his t-shirt rode up his chest. His hair was tussled, his face pale, his eyes glassy--

You didn't realise you were staring until he locked eyes with you once more. You acted as if you hadn't just been gawking, turning groggily towards the coffee pot.

"Do you want coffee?" You asked unenthusiastically.

"Yeah, that'd be great," Benny croaked out, stomping towards the kitchen like he was a toddler who'd just woken up from a nap. You went about prepping the coffee, your brain still not fully switched on.

You felt like you were in a dreamscape, a reality that wasn't actually real, and having Benny there in the morning made it all seem more so. You poured coffee in the nearest empty mugs you could find, sliding one to Benny as he leaned on the counter. He took the mug, but didn't drink.

"We need to talk," He said, and immediately your heart dropped. That phrase wasn't something that anyone liked to here; in a relationship, or out of one. You swallowed uncomfortably, leaning opposite him. "You beat me again last night."

You didn't know what to say to that. Instead, you sipped at your coffee waiting for him to continue. "Y/N, look at me." Benny demanded, and you complied immediately. He'd never spoken to you like this before—you'd be lying if you said your adrenaline hadn't spiked.

You looked into his eyes, feeling incredibly vulnerable. You felt exposed, trapped under some kind of spotlight, unable to travel backward into the shadows. Benny cleared his throat.

"You beat Harmon, too."

You would have fainted right there if the embarrassment of fainting in front of Benny Watts wasn't at the front of your mind. The most you could get out of your mouth was a sound somewhere between exhaling and humming. If you'd felt inside a dream before, then this was a whole other level—you were dreaming, you had to be. This simply couldn't be real.

The only way you were ever going to talk again was if you changed the subject. You stomped down your immense anxiety and confusion and sipped at your coffee, urging yourself to speak about something—anything—else.

"That doesn't explain why you slept on my floor last night."

The way Benny's face softened hit you in the gut. He tapped his mug, eyes darting everywhere except for at you. You realised he did that when he felt a certain way—when he felt awkward or on the spot—exposed.

"After what happened at your first game, I didn't want you to wake up, sober and alone, realising what you'd done and vomit your guts up," Your eyes widened slightly at his words. He kept tapping is mug, but finally looked you in the eye. "Just wanted to make sure you would be okay."

"I'm okay," You said after a pause, before letting out a shaky breath. You placed your head on the counter, the cold surface giving your pounding head some relief. "I can't believe I can't fucking remember it." Your voice contained a lot more frustration and sadness than you'd meant to put out, but it was too late to take it back now.

Even imagining that you'd beaten Beth Harmon seemed farfetched, but beating her while heavily drunk, playing on your father's chessboard that you hadn't been able to even look at for over a month, let alone pick it up and play on it, was something else.

You weren't just upset, you were angry. Angry at yourself, for giving yourself mixed feelings, for not knowing where the fuck you stood anymore, about anything. You were upset that you couldn't even remember beating two world champions, one after the other—

It just cemented how much of a mess you inwardly felt you were. Too afraid to look at a fucking chessboard, too drunk to remember playing—

You swallowed when you felt the familiar feeling of your throat closing up. You didn't know if it was just because you felt so shit, or if you'd finally snapped, but you let one tear through—just this time.

It fell from the corner of your eye, trickling over the bridge of your nose until it dropped onto the counter, splattering with the smallest of sounds and puddling under your cheek.

Your entire body froze when you felt Benny's hand gently settle atop your head.

You didn't move an inch from the fear that, if you did, he'd take it back—

Instead, you breathed in and out, unaware of what the warm feeling spreading throughout your chest was.

Your eyelashes fluttered unintentionally as he began to comb is his fingers hesitantly through your hair, tugging softly if he reached a knot, before continuing all the way to the ends and then back to the top.

You didn't speak, not sure what would pour out if you did. You'd never felt this sort of hands-on help, this level of comfort and emotional support, all because a stupid cowboy hat wearing chess player had decided to run his fingers through your hair—

All because he wanted to comfort you.

When you felt your eyes tearing up once more, you had no choice but to move. Benny took back his hand as if it had never been there, but the way his stare settled upon your flushed face showed you that he'd remember what he'd just done.

You swallowed, suddenly grabbing your coffee and downing it in two gulps. You turned your back to him, placing the mug in the sink. You stood for a moment, arms resting on either side of the sink, eyes clamped shut—

Overwhelmed at what had just happened.

Not because it was weird, or strange—

But because you'd never known you needed something that badly until he'd placed his hand atop your head.

It had been months since you'd been touched in any intimate way, platonically or sexually—and here you were, on the brink of tears at the fact Benny had stroked your hair for a minute or so.

"Did I really win against Beth?" You let out quietly. You just had to hear it again, then you'd know it was the truth. You turned to Benny, more composed now.

"Yeah. You did." He said, and you could see relief behind his eyes at the subject change.

You inhaled shakily, but when you let out the breath, it was steady.

"Guess I better do it again, so I can remember it." You added, and the hint of a smile appeared on Benny's lips. He made his way around the counter, passing you to put his own mug in the sink, before he stood in front of you.

The gap was fully bridged when he gently jabbed you in the chest, right over your heart.

"That's exactly what I wanted to hear."

You didn't move the chessboard until Benny had left. By that time, it was the afternoon. He'd stayed for another two cups of coffee, discussing the books he'd brought round earlier and getting over his hangover.

He told you that Beth was leaving that evening, back to Lexington, which meant you wouldn't have a chance to play her again for a few months at least.

"Have you thought about, I don't know—tournaments?" Benny let out, but you could tell he'd tried to make it sound like it wasn't a big deal.

"Out of the equation, Benny." You said, flicking through that months copy of Chess Review.

"But why not?" He added, the desperation becoming more apparent in his voice. "I could help you, mentor you, maybe—,"

"This conversation is over." You said sternly, shooting him a red stare. "I mean it."

He tapped his mug impatiently, looking away from your harsh stare. You ignored him as he stood, popping the mug back on the kitchen counter, before he went to shrug on his jacket. He turned to face you as he placed his hat on his head—

His hat that you'd been wearing the night before.

"I'll tell Beth you said goodbye." He let out bluntly. You stood as he opened the door, wanting to say something that would lighten the tension, but you didn't get the chance to speak before he'd slammed the door behind him.

You managed to place the board and its pieces back in the box before you felt sick to your stomach. Not just because it was his board, but because Benny's disappointed stare was etched in every corner of your mind.

He was annoyed.

And you had no idea why he would be, about you not wanting to play chess professionally. Surly, it meant less work for him—for Beth. It meant there wasn't someone new on the block to play against, especially given the fact you'd beaten two world champions in a row, in your second and third games ever played.

You picked up the chessboard box, wondering whether to put it back in the closet or not. A strange feeling hit you when you thought of it sitting in there, in the dark, hidden away beneath your other belongings—

He wouldn't have wanted that. He would have wanted it to see the sun, even if that meant the wood would bleach from the light—

You strolled to the window, placing it on the sill, still in the box. It wasn't visible as a chessboard, no, but it was finally out of that dark, stuffy closet. It was a start—and you knew what it was, which was all that mattered.

Your eyes landed upon Benny's empty mug on the counter. You frowned, imagining his fidgety fingers as they tapped on it, making his coffee ripple and thud.

His absence filled your apartment as you went to wash up. It was an absence you weren't expecting, until you'd realised just how much time you spent around Benny fucking Watts, now. A few times a week, at least—and then long periods of time like that morning and afternoon, just talking, or walking, or doing something stupid, probably.

You recalled his fingers as they laced through your hair, the way his face softened as he told you about why he'd stayed—

This wasn't the first time you'd been an asshole at Benny's expense.

And you needed to do something to fix it.

You kept that in mind as you made your way through the Student Union doors the following week, knowing that the chess club had just begun their meet.

You tried to channel something strong as you turned the corner, headed straight from the room with more chess boards than you'd ever care to see. You spotted his hat immediately, stood at the blackboard with his back to the members, scribbling moves while everyone stayed hooked onto his every word.

He'd laid out a game plan, crisscrossing arrows all around a quick sketch of a black and white board. You recognised the play immediately—

The King's Gambit.

Benny liked playing The King's Gambit. You knew that from his book, and from the way he'd started that first speed chess game.

"Alright," He said, throwing chalk to the floor and leaning on the desk, almost threateningly. "Who wants to play?"

"I will," You spoke up immediately, strolling forward into the room. When his eyes hit yours it almost stung, but not in a horrible way—

It was like a moment of recognition, of understanding, as his warm eyes pierced your cold ones. He didn't soften his frown, nor did he stop furrowing his brows, but you could see a ceasefire behind his pupils. It said he was sorry he snapped, sorry he pushed you, but even sorrier that you'd said no.

Your apology came in the form of sitting at the middle playing table, opposite a scrawny freshman with thick rimmed glasses who was positively shaking in his chinos. Your apology was playing the game; proving to him that you'd try—maybe not too fast—but that you were getting there—

That you were healing—

And he was helping.