Work Text:
Lugano is a small, exclusive tournament. The best six chess players in the world at the moment, double round-robin schedule, and absolutely no respect for people who would like to celebrate Christmas and New Year’s Eve with their family. Yet work is work — as he likes to remind Clarice every time she laments his absence — and Edward Blake simply pinches the bridge of his nose and goes over his notes once again.
The press conference has been a resounding success. Vasily Borgov has been polite and precise as always, although the absence of his wife made the exchange between him and the journalists a bit more complicated than usual; if Ed were a gossip reporter, he would have asked about the missing wedding band on his right hand, but he has better questions to ask the World Champion. Elizabeth Harmon offered her usual dry quips and intense stares, her dark eyes that always made him uncomfortable every time she glanced in his direction: a woman of her age has no right to have such a piercing gaze. It makes him want to loosen the collar of his shirt and his tie. It feels like she knows, just by looking at him, his every little secret. How he always leaves the toilet seat up, or how he still smokes despite promising his wife he has long stopped. It is unnerving, and Edward hates it very much.
The only one who isn’t intimidated by her eyes is the World Champion, with whom she exchanges long staredowns. During the press conference, they have been glancing at each other every once in a while, an electric charge running between them that was palpable even from his back-row seat. Their courteous rivalry has grown in intensity ever since Moscow. Every time they are in the same room, they seem to forget there are other people around them; the only thing that matters to them, in that moment, is the other person. It feels weirdly intimate, a connection only they share. Ed blames it on the gossip columnist who was sitting next to him, asking idiotic questions about Miss Harmon’s love life; their stupidity must be rubbing off him.
Still, his notes on the press conference are perfect. His article on the tournament will turn out better than what Mr Anderson expects of him. Edward grimaces at the thought of his detested chief editor and his ridiculous moustache curled at the tips, and glances at the clock: half past one a.m. It is officially 1970.
He has been so absorbed in reviewing his work that he forgot to call his wife to wish her a happy new year. Clarice might still be up, and there’s a chance he might escape her wrath — or at least, a part of it — if he calls her now: she had invited some of her girlfriends to a house party, the kids left in the care of her mother for the rest of the week, so she might be still awake. Worth a shot. He will have to buy her something from a nice jewellery anyway.
Edward has been working all night in a small lounge room; the place is eerily quiet, as other guests are celebrating the night away in one of the three conference rooms of the hotel, now an improvised dance hall. The chess players, instead, are attending another private party to which all press is barred from. All his colleagues have decided to mingle with the other hotel guests and have some fun, but Ed really needed to finish his analysis of the latest Borgov-Larsen game, and how the Danish Grandmaster missed an opportunity to draw his lost game.
It doesn’t matter now; he has to call Clarice immediately.
His room is quite far, and the long lift ride will take away precious time he doesn’t have. However, on the same floor he is now, there is the conference room the tournament organisers used as a pressroom only a few days ago; if he isn’t sorely mistaken, there was a phone next to the seat Miss Harmon occupied. The room might be unlocked and it is on the way to the lift, so he won’t waste much time if it’s closed off.
It’s decided, then. Ed quickly gathers his belongings and moves towards the pressroom; as luck would have it, the door is unlocked and opens without a creak.
However, what he finds inside is surely unexpected.
There’s a couple making out on one of the front-row seats, their figures barely distinguishable in the dim light of a table lamp. Edward can’t see their faces, as the woman sitting on the man’s lap is covering his view with her back, but her hair is unmistakable: copper red, styled with a soft curl at the tip like Natalie Wood’s. There’s only one woman present here with that colour and style.
Elizabeth Harmon turns towards him, her huge dark eyes widening when she spots him on the threshold. Her cheeks are flushed, her mouth is a small, perfect ‘o’, and her signature crimson lipstick is completely missing. When he glances at the man, Ed realises that her lipstick isn’t missing, but it’s just misplaced: Vasily Borgov sports unmistakable kiss marks on his neck and the corner of his lips, stretched in a thin line. The World Champion is now looking at him too, clearly annoyed by the interruption, and his clear blue eyes make him shiver: he’s staring at him with the same contempt you would regard a cockroach before squishing it under the heel of your shoe. Edward fears Mr Borgov is seriously considering punching him in the face for his intrusion, and the woman sitting on his lap is preventing him from it.
Elizabeth Harmon, he reminds himself. The woman sitting on his lap is American Grandmaster, two times US champion Elizabeth Harmon. His supposed archenemy. Vasily Borgov is making out like a horny teenager with Elizabeth Harmon in a dimly lit room after sneaking away from the chess party.
“Good evening, Mr… Blake, was it?” She’s the one to break the silence, her face now relaxed, almost cheery. Like she isn’t in a compromising position at all, but simply sitting down on a chair for an interview. Edward can only nod, too gobsmacked. “Would you mind closing the door on your way out?” She smiles proudly and waves a hand at him, in clear dismissal.
If this is a fever dream, it is for sure a very realistic one.
His hesitation makes the World Champion scowl more. His eyes are now daggers, and if looks could kill, Ed would drop dead immediately. He says something to Miss Harmon in Russian and listens to her response in the same language without looking away from him, his hand possessively squeezing her hip. Edward stares at them talking for a while, still slack-jawed and morbidly curious to see more of their interactions, when he hears Miss Harmon clear her throat. “Please, Mr Blake. Have a good night, and happy new year!” The smile is still present on her lips and she waves her hand more, as to convey her impatience for his prolonged stay.
“And we’ll appreciate your silence very much, Mr Blake.” Mr Borgov adds in English, in a low tone of voice that hints at severe repercussions if he were ever to spill the beans to a living soul. Maybe the KGB agents always shadowing him, with the right words whispered in their ear, wouldn’t mind silencing a simple chess reporter… He doubts his disappearance would raise many eyebrows, and the Soviets are not to be trifled with. He is just a simple man with a simple life. He wants nothing to do with this.
He nods quickly, pulling slightly on his shirt collar, and closes the door with haste. The last thing he sees is Miss Harmon’s smile widening, and then he hears her amused giggle even from outside the room; she’s saying something in Russian, but soon the conversation ends and silence fills the hallway once more.
Edward takes a moment to recollect his thoughts, to decide if what he just saw is a fever dream and he will wake up any moment now next to Clarice or it’s the plain truth. The soft click of the door’s lock behind him makes him favour the latter, and he runs a hand through his hair. “Bloody Grandmasters,” he mutters, straightening his tie.
The encounter has left him with so much tension that he forgoes the lift in favour of the stairs; he’s still thinking about that scene when he enters his modest room and dials the number. But the thought of the World Champion and Miss Harmon making out is soon removed from his mind when Clarice picks up, very upset at his delay. He isn’t interested in their private affair, as sensational as it is, and he won’t certainly risk upsetting Vasily Borgov for his curiosity; he’s no gossip columnist, he would forget about what he saw and pretend nothing happened. Not very difficult to do while his wife reminds him of all his slights.
Edward runs his hand through his hair, again, careful not to let out a huff that would enrage Mrs Blake even more. A simple stop at a jewellery won’t be enough; he will probably need to buy an expensive bouquet to be allowed back in his own home.
Bloody chess tournaments.