âmes pétillantes ~ classic rock imagines

• Kurt Cobain •

Apparantly Kurt Cobain played chess, so here I am. Enjoy!
--☆--

February 1988

The quiet tap of wood on wood, as calming as rain against a window. Sadly, the window you're sat beside is darkened by the chilly Seattle night. Streetlamps illuminate the quiet domesticity of your childhood home's street, the pavements you used to bike down, the grasses you used to roll in. The window seat you're sat on is well-worn and leaves the chess board unevenly sat between you and Kurt. Your eyes lock with his as he lifts the white queen with his bitten-down fingers.

"I call that check, kid,' Kurt says, a smirk lighting up his sombre face.

Shit. How hadn't you seen that one coming? Probably because Kurt makes the rules of chess up as he goes along. Or, at least, you're fairly confident he does. He's supposed to be teaching you, but so far all he's done is win.

You try to ignore his blazing eyes, his crooked smile, his teasing words. You love him very much, but all you want is to beat him, preferably in as humiliating a way as possible. All's fair in love and war.

The squares of the board blur, you're staring at them with such concentration. Maybe my rook could block the attack? No, that would leave my pawn open for taking. Then again, could the pawn block the attack? Or could the Knight go into the danger zone? No, it's not on the right path.

Then, you see your bishop, placidly set up on Kurt's end of the board, almost forgotten. A direct diagonal, straight into the warpath. With a blazing smile, you plucked it up and placed it between his queen and your king with a satisfied thwack.

"Check that," you say, satisfaction evident in your voice.

"Ah, shit," Kurt mumbles, and you watch the smile fall from his face with ill-hidden glee.

"Hey, mind your language in here, rock star." Your dad materializes in the kitchen doorway, a bottle of Coke swishing in his hand, and approaches with an interested hum.

"Well, shit," he says as a proud grin spreads across his face, stopping to look at the board curiously. You splutter into an enthusiastic giggle. "Looks like you're on the run."

"You bet," Kurt says, voice strained despite the laughter pulling at his lips. Your dad pats him on the shoulder, shoots you a smile, then drifts into the front room.

It's quiet for a contemplative, tense moment. Kurt runs a hand through his tangled hair, huffing. He stares at the board intently, barely blinking. You're struck by how out of place he seems in such a calm, domestic scene, matted hair and ripped jeans standing out like a stain against the pale peony of your front hall. Yet, he relishes in the care and attention your parents lavish him with, leaning into every touch and caring word they are so easy to give him.

"Ah, forget this," he says, suddenly, pouting. "Let's go get a burger."

He untangles his lanky legs from where he's tucked them under his body, beginning to get up.

"I call that being a sore loser," you say, laughing, making no move to follow him.

"So do I," your dad calls from the front room where, no doubt, he's settled himself on his recliner.

"Didn't know this was a spectator sport," Kurt laughs, leaning off the window seat to catch your dad's eye.

"Not spectating, only refereeing," your dad teases. "But if you're going, I'll have a burger."

Kurt turns back and his eyes meet yours, a cheeky smirk lighting up his face. "If I win, are you buying?"

Your dad is quiet for a second, and the sound of the TV leaks into the hallway. "Alright, rock star, you're on. And I'll even throw in Y/N's."