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He couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t do that, not again. How many knights did he have to sacrifice? What was the point of this hobby anymore? What was he even saying… man, this was stupid. He won, and yet he doesn’t fucking feel like it. He could barely even look at that piece anymore. Dumb as hell. The guy deserved it; Saint had to make that sacrifice, so why couldn’t he do it again, in the more literal sense of a game?
His opponent looked at him with some disgusting face. Was that pity, or was it anticipation? Who knows. He was already doting too much. He settled on moving a different piece. The game was still winnable that way, right?
The truth is, for someone with a life sentence, Saint was acting like he had no time at all. Far from his typical carefully planned moves, he was rushing through the game. Clear to anyone, his opponent and himself included, he no longer cared about the outcome. All he wanted was to be done with it as soon as possible.
“I thought you liked chess,” the opponent spoke up. “You’re…” terrible at it. Not thinking, Throwing. “…avoiding a really useful piece, man. Is your knight working against you, or something? You look constipated as hell.”
…So, they noticed. Yeah, it wasn’t really subtle. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Simeon started, as he swallowed the bile that rose at the back of his throat. Before his opponent could respond, he raised his hand, “I’ll go. Thanks for the game.” After getting caught around a month and a half ago now, you’d think he’d stop with the dismissive act. He left with a clear disgusted expression, unsure why he didn’t just tell the guy to shut the fuck up. Maybe he wanted to better himself, in some superficial way. He blamed Kanis, as the man’s own changing-of-ways while in prison was, dare he say, inspiring. Getting to speak with him after so long instead of just using him translating those letters was nice, actually. It was affecting Simeon more than he liked to admit.
Simeon walked into the workshop. That one. Sure, the alarm blared because of that bracelet on his wrist, but he could ignore it for now. It’d take a bit for the guard to get here, anyway. As stoked as he was for that terrible woman to finally get what was coming to her, the prison was somehow even more of a mess without her. Not a bad thing for him, though.
He wandered to the area where that sacrifice of his once laid. While not the scene of the crime itself, Simeon felt some strange…connection with it. This was his first kill, in technicality. He had spent so long planning it, making sure it’d go perfectly, with the smallest doubts in his mind. On paper, he liked the idea of seeing him in pain. And yet, it was the only “kill” of his that made him feel sick. Simeon carefully sat atop his legs as he thought. This kill was necessary to set up Laguarde. She deserved to be put away… but did he really deserve it? Well, he killed somebody. And for a less justified reason than me, right? And he tied me up back then. Exhaling a breath he didn’t know he was keeping in, Simeon traced his fingers along the ground, trying his best to remember where the body was. There were no stains or marks left now, but he kept a memory of when he saw that chalk outline after his first time here as a prisoner. It was still there, then… Everything really happened in such quick succession, didn’t it. Hah. He fought the urge to cry or throw up or something as his suddenly fixated brain reminded him that even just a week’s notice of that fatal misunderstanding could have prevented this. Because… Simeon did trust the guy back, didn’t he? Undeniably. The plan relied on his understanding of Bronco’s complex and hatred towards that poor superior. A complex he knew too well. His head hurt, God. If Bronco hadn’t shot him, it would’ve proven a misplaced trust or knowledge he had in him, but he did exactly as expected. And knowing what he knows now, that Bronco wasn’t responsible for a death 18 years ago… it gives him agita. He tries denying it, but the thought always lingers: could they have been a team? Would he have been successful in getting Bronco on board with a greater punishment for that mother-figure of his? Or with his position and proximity to “Wang”, could they have…
Simeon felt his heart stop as his fingers felt a dent on the floor. Must have been from the base of his neck, when he was thrown back a bit harshly. Fuck. That was a reminder of what he couldn’t deny. To think that, just a few minutes ago, in some parallel world, he could’ve been playing against him instead. Why did he do this to himself? Why was Simeon even thinking of this? It was useless—Bronco deserved it. He needed to be hurt, to some extent. It wouldn’t have felt so right to see him like that if that weren’t true. He had to stop imagining these what-ifs.
Saint was never more grateful for the guard to show up. Trying his best to make himself look more angry and less pathetic, he kissed his teeth, silently thanking the guard for bringing his mind back to him. He was brought back to his cell.
Later, he went to visit Kanis.
“Young pup,” his savior (more like father, in a world where that word didn’t have such horrendous implications for him) started. Despite the man’s blindness, he could feel a gentle glare. As unintimidating as he found him, Simeon’s goosebumps could tell a different story. He was scared of something else, though. Like an intervention. “Why do you keep wandering into a place which only gives you misery?” It went unsaid, but Kanis’s concern was readable—“You must get over this eventually.”
And Saint couldn’t help but break down. It hurt. Kanis saved them both that day. Maybe if he had tried to convince Bronco when he started that fire 12 years back—No, that wouldn’t’ve worked. Bronco was already steadily becoming that stubborn jackass. Simeon wished he could get over this. But this was the point of prison, wasn’t it? To wallow in all your pain and guilt.
“For such a genius, you are far too unadaptable, pup.” Simeon raised his head from the downward position he hadn’t realized it was in. “I would ask to give this advice over a game you and I both adore, but that would be unreasonably cruel.” Thank the God I don’t believe in.
“What do you think then, Kanis?”
“I think it would be best to further the connection—your friend was not so dissimilar to you.” What.
“What does that even mean? Are you asking me to regret what I did? ‘Do better’, as if I could kill someone I,” hated. Didn't hate? Enjoyed the presence of, despite it all? “…took for granted so often ever again in these prison walls?” As if there were to ever be someone I feel so strongly about again? There was no hiding from Kanis, so he meant what he said.
“Jumping the gun, pup. Your choices were not the greatest, yes. But I am glad you admit that now.” Kanis motioned Helmut to grab some item, muttering his classic gibberish along the lines of yess good boy, or something. Simeon knew firsthand that training animals didn’t require that kind of strange talking, but he couldn’t say anything when he was just as guilty. He felt himself rolling his eyes at it, as if anyone in the vicinity could see. Helmut turned back around as quickly as he’d turned away, and he had a chess piece in his mouth. Great, a finely chiseled knight. Okay, Kanis.
“Take it. There is no escape from the guilt you face.” And so he did. Damn, it was detailed. Simeon felt the careful crevices in the Knight’s mane, the divot between its base and the head… A true craftsman, Kanis was. He felt his chest throb as he gently hiked his thumb over the snout, half expecting a sharp nose and those sunken eyes which were, of course, nowhere to be felt. “I will not lie to you, Simeon,” Kanis said after a long pause, surely expecting Simeon to stop inspecting the Knight at that point. He wasn’t, but nobody needed to know that. “It will not go away. You will find yourself lost without his presence more often, even.” Him, lost? Nowaynoway!, part of him wanted to respond. But that dismissiveness wouldn’t be lost on anyone in this room. Helmut would be able to sniff it out easily, and the wise man he’s come to trust so much knows him by now. “So, I wish for you to take this Knight. Do what you please with it. Throw it away, leave it somewhere, play with it, turn it into a ring, “…ouch. “Or anything your heart desires. It is clear that, in addition to your guilt, your grief is immense.
“I care deeply for you, young pup, and I would like your acceptance to come faster.”
Staring at his mentor as if he could look back at him, Simeon thought about it. Taking the Knight would serve as a reminder. He’d feel terrible. But so would leaving it somewhere to die (again). “…Alright. Thank you.” Simeon half-hugged Kanis, as he did whenever he was to return to his own cell. How have they still not fixed those secret chambers…? They’ve known about them for a whole month.
Once he returned, he sat on his bare bed. He didn’t know how Kanis was allowed to keep lavishly living when any new inmate would suffer with nothing, but whatever. That’s fine. Simeon held the Knight in his hands, finding himself staring at it. With his forehead line surely aging him ten years, he thought about it. How could something as simple as a tool, a piece in a game, give him so much anger, disgust, warmth, and distance, all at once? It was so familiar. He wishes things were different. He always has, and his mentor would be proud of him for admitting that. He sighed as he dug his weak nails into the Knight’s head, trying to form those deep, sunken eyes he’d always liked. An attribute he’d stared at and often longed to touch. It was the proof of their similarity he should have recognized long ago. Boys—no, men—failed by those all around, tired of the choices they had to make for themselves, yet with an ire of self-importance and an overall skewed vision of who deserved what.
Saint finally let himself cry as he laid himself onto the bed properly, not caring if it was cold or uncomfortable for him. Although he faced the cell’s exterior, his eyes couldn’t move off the piece in his hands as dug his nails deeper, no matter how fruitless it was. Whimpering as it hurt to keep his eyes open, what with the combination of all the tears and impending dryness, he found his mind drifting back to all the times he wanted to forgive him and hurt him all the same. All the matches that proved their friendship. All the annoying mannerisms he had. All those moments where they understood each other, and ones he felt they were distant, and every time he’d forgotten about the murder of Artie Frost. As his mind wandered, he sobbed himself into exhaustion. Keeping his grip as tight as he could despite his sweaty bloody hands, he slept as if he had something worth protecting, that he hurt all the same. Those sunken features were a product of hurt, and he cursed himself for continuing to pain him. Is it bad that he still wanted to? He had to hold on to it, regardless.
When he awoke, Simeon noticed the Knight was out of his hands. He whipped his head around, half expecting it to be floating as if possessed. He felt a pain under his jaw, near the top of the right side of his neck. Sitting up as he rubbed at it—noticing some skin breakage and texture, but no bleeding—, he nearly missed the feeling of wood brushing against him, having fallen towards the center of his weight on the bed. As soon as he felt it, he picked up the piece to assess his success on forming those crevices… He was unsuccessful, Simeon decided as his face wrinkled in a mixture of disappointment and disgust. But there was the slightest line. Not visible, but he could feel the difference. And suddenly he felt some bittersweet feeling in his chest, one that kept becoming evidence of the fact he could feel something at all that wasn’t derived from hate.
“He’s not making it easy for me to control him again, huh,” Simeon said to himself, staring at the Knight as he turned it around in his palm. Swallowing reminded him of the slight hurt in his neck, still burning minutes after getting up. As he stroked the piece with one hand and rubbed his neck with the other, he couldn’t help but notice how well they matched.
“That stubborn prick,” he cried, accompanied by the first genuine laugh he had since he was admitted here.
He decided to place the Knight where he found it. Bronco wouldn’t forgive him easily, after all. He knew damn well he’d be thinking of him every night regardless of the piece’s presence, but it felt nice to be hurt back by him by some force of nature. Why lengthen my atonement? He thought as he placed the piece at the base of his pillow. If it were elsewhere, he'd put it back there every night.
“God,” Simeon found his nails’ place in the Knight’s head on a different occasion, “I am so far gone.”
He chuckled, wishing he had carved into the Knight’s ear instead.