Work Text:
In Mexico City, Borgov recognizes the fire within her eyes. He sees a younger version of himself, one more apt to take risks, to leave pieces of himself on the board. He sees the pure, unadulterated passion Elizabeth Harmon brings to the game, like it’s life and death for her, and he muses that in a way, it is. Borgov sees that passion, he understands it, even envies it. He too felt the same fire, before it was turned back against him, molding him into an obedient adversary, an honorable Soviet citizen, one that must bend but never break.
His admiration for her grows over the years, then blooms into something greater, a deadly nightshade of jealousy, lust, and devotion.
The announcement of her engagement to Harry Beltik, the former Kentucky state champion, does not shock him. It was inevitable that she would find someone young and charming, someone who no doubt was besotted with her as he is. Their wedding is a quiet affair, with only one photo making its way into a slew of chess magazines. Beth Harmon – no, Beth Beltik now, he reminds himself – and her husband sit hand and hand, beaming at each other. She looked exquisitely beautiful, draped in delicate white lace and ivory satin, every inch the blushing bride.
Looking at the two of them, Borgov was reminded of the initial tournaments his wife accompanied him on, back when they were in that forceful first flush of love. He remembers it like it was yesterday – how they worked seamlessly as a team, player and translator, proof of the success of their union; the way Yelena beamed with pride at his victories; how her watching him play was tantamount to foreplay. He and Yelena were married still, but far from being newlyweds who couldn’t keep their hands off each other; they had settled into that comfortable ennui of middle age, still fond of each other, but far from the passion that had once overtaken them.
Tucked in a corner in the hotel lobby, Borgov sees Mr. and Mrs. Beltik check in at the front desk, still wrapped in thick coats. Beth’s hair is longer, and her cheeks seem a bit fuller. It suits her. It isn’t until later, when she strides knowingly toward the board and sits across from him, that he sees the swell of her belly.
Despite the softness that pregnancy has given her, she is still as ruthless as ever on the board.
In the middle of the game, she stills so violently that Borgov is immediately alarmed. Then her expression turns serene, her fingers dropping from the board to splay over her stomach. Beth turns to look at her husband. “He’s kicking,” she says, smiling at him so genuinely that Borgov thinks his heart is going to burst.
Borgov has been retired for years now, only comes to the occasional tournament as a coach for Girev. He stills thinks of her with a pang of longing sometimes.
Girev may be poised to take the title of world champion from Beth Beltik now, thanks to Borgov’s diligent tutelage. Making his way to the tournament hall, Borgov spots her immediately, waiting at the board for Girev. He slips into the crowd unnoticed.
Her hair is even longer and figure more sturdy, the body of a woman and not a girl, but she is still as beautiful as ever, with her lustrous eyes and luscious lips. Her slim fingers dance alongside the chess board, waiting and wanting. He notices her husband sitting closely in the audience, with their little boy, maybe eight or nine years old. He has dark hair and dark eyes, and Borgov thinks wistfully that in another life this boy could have been his son.
“Wave hi to mommy,” Beth’s husband coos at him, and the little boy waves enthusiastically to Beth. She blows him a kiss.
William, Borgov thinks. He had read somewhere that their son’s name was William.
Girev arrives to the match, nodding at Borgov. Beth’s eyes snap to him, and it is like Mexico City all over again, feeling her watching him at Chapultepec Park, or like Paris, her dissecting him as the tournament director droned on about the rules, or even in Moscow, when he could feel her gaze even when he could not see it. She stares at him, and he sees himself reflected in her dark irises: a world champion poised for one last fight.
Girev straightens the chess pieces with a gentle click, and Beth looks away, her focus now on the chess board. With precise, practiced movements, she crosses her fingers beneath her chin and retreats back to the sixty four squares they once shared.