Work Text:
March 1976
Molokov says there will be a celebration when they return home.
Anatoly isn’t sure he wants to be at a party that Molokov is in charge of planning, but right then, he doesn’t have the presence of mind to say no. Three hours ago, he won his first zonal tournament, securing a spot in the next interzonal, only a few months away. His first ever shot at the world championship, after 17 years of work. None of it feels real—he feels like he’s floating above the world, not really taking any of it in.
Anatoly has a lot on his mind.
So, when the hotel front desk lets him know he has a phone call, he isn’t paying much attention to what they say. When he hears the voice of his wife on the other end, reality comes crashing back down on him.
“How did it go?” Svetlana asks.
Her voice is tinny over the bad connection—Oslo to the middle of nowhere. Anatoly wishes, not for the first time, that she hadn’t decided to stay with her mother while he was gone. Anatoly would have gladly paid for her ticket to come to Moscow.
“I won,” Anatoly says simply. The weight of it is immense.
“Good,” Svetlana says. He thinks she understands—if he’s not mistaken, he hears a hint of a smile in her voice.
He hasn’t thought of her during the tournament. He can’t, generally—can’t afford to be distracted by anything, any sort of attachment, or he would lose his focus and lose everything. But right then, now that it’s all over, he misses her terribly.
“How are you feeling? Are you resting?” he asks, unable to squash his natural tendency to worry.
“I have rested plenty,” Svetlana assures him. She sounds tired. “Actually, Anatoly… Is there anyone else around?”
Anatoly looks around his empty hotel room. “No one,” he says. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong, I promise,” she says. “But, Tolya… the baby was already born. I’m calling you from the hospital.”
Anatoly’s stomach drops out from under him. All of the air leaves his lungs. “What?” he gasps. “When? Are you alright? Is—”
“I’m fine. Everything is fine,” she assures him gently.
“The baby…?” he asks, like he isn’t sure he wants to know. There is a big difference, between having a pregnant wife and having a baby, and Anatoly is now at the point of no return.
“She’s healthy,” Svetlana says.
“A girl,” Anatoly breathes. Svetlana wanted a girl. He hadn’t given it any thought one way or another, but now he has a daughter, and that’s— “Have you… named her yet?”
Svetlana chuckles. “No. We’ll wait for you to get here,” she says. “I have a list of options, since you wouldn’t help me pick before. I warn you, my mother is very opinionated on the subject.”
“I’m sure she is,” Anatoly sighs. She’s opinionated on most things. Generally he trusts Svetlana’s judgment—she’s been a levelheaded, steady presence at his side for ten years now—but she’s been a little strange in pregnancy. He’ll want to look over the list before they sign any papers.
“I’m sorry I missed it,” he says, and then something in his mind catches. “You said—yesterday?”
“Yes. At 3:41,” Svetlana says.
At 3:41 the previous afternoon, he was playing the penultimate game in this tournament. “You didn’t call,” he says.
It’s quiet on the other end of the line for a moment or two, but not completely quiet due to the quality of the call—there are extraneous little noises taking up the space where neither of them speak.
“You had an important game today,” Svetlana says. “I didn’t want to distract you.”
Anatoly runs a hand through his hair, tugging at it. How many times has he asked her not to disturb him as he prepares for a game like this? How many times has he grown frustrated with her, having to explain exactly what he needs? She’s right—knowing he now has a newborn, that his wife is in the hospital with his first child? It would have been impossible to come back from. There is no way he would have been able to focus on the game then. It seems Svetlana has finally gotten the message.
Except, now Anatoly is a father. He has a daughter. And he’s missed her first day of life.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, because he doesn’t know what else to say.
“Don’t be. You would have been no help,” Svetlana says. “Tell me about the tournament. You are able to advance now?”
“Yes. I have a spot at the interzonal in a few months,” Anatoly says.
“When is that?” she asks.
“July,” he says. Just four months away. He has so much preparation he needs to do, and now he has a newborn to worry about. And… Anatoly has been before, as a second, when he was a little bit younger and still paying his dues. He knows what to expect. “It will probably last a month.”
“A month,” Svetlana repeats, not in protest or surprise. Just… resignation. “We will figure something out. You come home tomorrow?”
“Yes, our plane leaves first thing in the morning,” he says. “I’ll buy a train ticket to you as soon as I arrive in Moscow.”
“Then I will speak to you then. I am very tired,” she says. “I love you, Anatoly.”
“I love you, too,” he says automatically. And then she hangs up, and he is alone.
He doesn’t get any sleep that night.
Anatoly is a father. He has a brand new daughter. He’s going to meet her tomorrow. He’s going to help name her. And then…
Well. Maybe by the time the interzonal rolls around, she’ll be sleeping through the night. Maybe Svetlana won’t need his help. And the baby will still be young then. She won’t know who he is anyway, so maybe it won’t matter if she forgets him. And then, sometimes he worries—but realistically, he knows many chess players have families. This doesn’t have to be it. It can’t be.
Svetlana always knew she wanted children. She was as patient with Anatoly as could be expected. He was just hoping that, by the time they actually got to this point, he would be less terrified.
Early the next morning, Anatoly meets Molokov in the hotel lobby with all his luggage.
“You look terrible,” he observes jovially as they make their way to the taxi line.
“Thank you,” Anatoly says flatly. But he is bursting at the seams. “My daughter was born yesterday.” His daughter. Saying it will take some getting used to.
“Congratulations,” Molokov says. “You must give Svetlana my well-wishes when you return.”
He… doesn’t sound surprised. Anatoly feels a chill run down his spine. If Svetlana had called yesterday—if Molokov had intercepted the news—
Anatoly is quiet for the duration of the trip.