Work Text:
November 1987
Normally, Svetlana doesn’t go to her husband’s games. She doesn’t attend the tournaments with him. Even when they were truly married, she didn’t. For the world championship in Seville, she isn’t given much of a choice.
She hasn’t seen Molokov in years, and she doesn’t think Anatoly has, either. He shows up personally to her classroom after the final bell has rung and the students have all filtered out, inviting her and her children to the world chess championship in Seville.
Svetlana doesn’t ask why. It isn’t the first time Anatoly has left the Soviet Union for a tournament since his defection. Only a year ago, he was in London for the first time since living there. This time, though, they want some collateral, something to discourage Anatoly from running away again. It’s not about where he is, but about who he’s playing.
And as soon as Molokov proposes the idea, Svetlana’s traitorous heart leaps at the thought. She accepts without much complaint.
Once they arrive in Spain, she still has to nag a little bit to be allowed to go where she wants and when she wants. Molokov makes a comment about her running away, but Svetlana has always been good at playing the part of party and national loyalty. She has to compensate for her traitor husband.
“I have nothing to run from,” Svetlana says firmly. “And even if I did, you have my children.” They’re with their state-employed nanny as she says it, on an educational trip to a museum. If they get to enjoy visiting another country, why shouldn't she?
“We have your children,” Molokov agrees.
Svetlana is given the run of the city between games. She doesn’t ask if she’ll be followed, and Molokov doesn’t say.
Seville is beautiful. There’s so much more to see than she could ever hope to have time for, but she makes a solid effort. Sometimes she goes with her children on trips around town. Once, on a rest day, Anatoly even joins them, along with all his bodyguards. It isn’t as stressful here as Bangkok had been, where the threats were more explicit and Svetlana was still recovering from heartbreak. But…
She keeps seeing Florence—out of the corner of her eye at the hotel, or on stage during the games. Every time, she is so close, and yet unreachable. It makes Svetlana’s heart ache.
In the end, the solution falls into her lap at an event dinner hosted by the tournament’s sponsors. It’s a dressy affair with a huge buffet. Both delegations are in attendance, along with a host of other people Svetlana doesn’t know and is having to make smalltalk to, but they’re sat at opposite ends of the room. Alone waiting in line for second helpings at the buffet, Svetlana watches Florence. She looks up from whatever conversation she’s in the middle of, and their eyes meet. For a moment, the world freezes, and then Florence grins at her and waves.
“Enjoying yourself?” comes a voice behind Svetlana, causing her to jump. She turns around to find Frederick Trumper with his hands in the pockets of his white blazer—her new… friend. Acquaintance, at the least.
“As much as can be expected,” she says neutrally. “It has been nice having somewhere new to explore.”
“You know, you really should let me interview you,” he grins. “It’d be a big hit. People would die to hear your side of the story.”
The idea makes her want to laugh. Instead, she gives him a skeptical look before moving forward and taking a plate. “There are no sides,” she says. “I don’t want any publicity. I’m just doing what’s best for my family.”
“Yeah, okay, sure,” Frederick says, grabbing for the sushi tongs. “I was told to give you this.”
He slips a folded piece of paper out of his pocket without looking at her and slips it into her hand. She clutches it tight, and then holds it flat underneath her plate, out of sight. “Did you read it?” she asks.
“She’d kill me if I did,” he says. “Seriously, though, think about the interview. I’m sure our people could convince your benevolent overlords to spare you for an hour or two.”
“I saw what happened when you interviewed Anatoly in Bangkok,” Svetlana says neutrally.
Freddie grins at her. “Promise I won’t do that to you,” he says. “I’m a new man now. Completely by the book, I give you my word.”
Svetlana grabs a little plate of cake for dessert at the end of the table and doesn’t ask how much his word is worth. “I make no promises,” she says, before going back to her table to take her seat next to Anatoly.
She slips the paper underneath the table when no one is looking and then into her shoe, and pretends to pay attention to the conversation happening around her for a few minutes before excusing herself to the restroom. Only when she’s alone, locked in an immaculately clean stall, does she take it out and unfold the note from Florence.
Florence doesn’t think it’s fair that they’re in the same place at the same time and can’t just talk to each other. She wants to meet up. She knows they have to be careful—that if Molokov or the press found out, it could be a very big problem. But there’s no match the next day, and she has a place she thinks will be safe so they can talk face-to-face.
There’s a meeting time and place written at the bottom, for the following morning, along with a PS that Florence understands if she can’t make it, if it’s too late notice. Svetlana wouldn’t miss it for the world.
It’s so hard going back to the party after that, to socialize and pay attention to what other people are saying and play the part of socialite wife—something she’s never had much trouble with before. Anatoly looks at her strangely a few times, having caught on that something is going on. She hopes he’s the only one.
She doesn’t tell him about the note, or the meeting. He knows they’ve been writing, these last few years. It’s none of his business how she spends her time—and besides. She doesn’t want to distract him. He has been struggling, this tournament, and it doesn’t help that he’s further thrown off by Svetlana and the children’s presence. If she didn’t know any better, she would think Molokov was planning for him to lose.
She slips away early the next morning, giving the nanny a fake story about a breakfast place she’d been recommended and a few stores she wants to check out. She bypasses the hotel staff and gets directions from a bakery clerk down the street, and tries to make her path as winding as reasonably possible without getting lost, in an effort to lose any tails she may have. Finally, she finds herself at a little nondescript coffee shop downtown.
Frederick is sitting at one of the outdoor tables, scribbling furiously in a notebook, a handheld tape player sitting on the tabletop. He looks up and spots her, giving her a cheerful little wave before packing away his things.
“You made it!” he greets, standing. “I can’t believe you two have been pen pals this whole time. Small world.”
“Is she here?” Svetlana asks, peering inside the coffee shop for anyone she recognizes.
“No, she’s at my second hotel room. It’s this way,” Freddie says, setting off down the sidewalk. Svetlana quickly falls in step next to him. She quickly notes they’re headed the opposite direction from the event venue, further into the more crowded downtown of Seville.
“I thought Global Television’s hotel would have been closer,” she comments. “I see cameramen everywhere.”
“Oh, it is,” Frederick says, glancing briefly over his shoulder. “I have a room at the Hilton they’re paying for. It’s nice, but I haven’t been using it much. Could be bugged.”
Svetlana shoots him a confused look. They’re in Spain, and he isn’t even competing. “You came to Moscow twice,” she says.
“Well, yeah, but in Moscow I knew everything was bugged, so I just kept my mouth shut. Here I have more of a choice,” Freddie says. “I didn’t reserve the room until I touched down here, and I’m using a fake name, so it should be pretty safe. Which is why Florence wanted to meet up with you there instead of in public. Nobody with a camera would think to look for you out here.”
It does make Svetlana feel a little bit better about the whole thing. She’s heard the rumors about Frederick’s paranoia, but in situations like this, he has reason to be. She appreciates the effort they’re taking to be careful here.
As they walk, Svetlana’s mind nags her with worry. She and Florence have only spoken in person once very briefly, and that was years ago. They’ve been writing for three years, but that isn’t the same as interacting in person. What if it isn’t what Florence is expecting? What if Svetlana is boring? What if Svetlana can’t think of anything to say? She doesn’t know what she would do with herself, if Florence lost interest in her and stopped writing. She clenches her hands into fists, and focuses on breathing, on putting one foot in front of the other.
They take a winding route to get to the hotel, and when they finally arrive, out of an abundance of caution, Freddie sends her in first and then enters through a separate door. It isn’t the nicest establishment, and Svetlana can only imagine the scandal that would come with someone recognizing her, entering a seedy hotel like this with her husband’s old rival. That’s the last thing she needs.
Freddie meets back up with her in a hallway and leads her up a couple flights of stairs before finding his door. He unlocks it and walks in, holding the door open for her.
For a moment, she is rendered immobile. Florence is right there, sitting cross-legged on the bed in casual clothes with a chessboard and three books spread out in front of her, like a picture. It almost seems unreal. But she jumps up as soon as she sees them.
“You made it!” she grins.
As of their own accord, Svetlana’s feet bring her inside, and Florence meets her with a hug. Svetlana melts into it, squeezing her tight. She has no concept of how long it lasts, but it’s long enough for her fears to start to ease.
When they do finally break apart, Svetlana realizes Freddie has slipped past them to the desk and is switching out notebooks from his bag. “Okay, I probably won’t be back until late, so take your time,” he says, heading back to the door. “Just don’t lose your key.”
“Thank you, Freddie,” Florence says, with an unmistakable note of fondness in her voice, but she’s not looking at Freddie when she says it. She’s looking at Svetlana.
She wills herself not to blush—this is not a concern she’d thought to have, previously, that she would give herself away so easily. She’s not a schoolgirl, she’s the mother of two children. This is ridiculous.
“It’s so good to see you,” she says, once Freddie is gone and the door is shut behind him.
“I’ve been dying for a chance to speak to you,” Florence laughs, almost as if she can’t believe this is really happening. She hurries to move her things aside on the bed, carefully transporting the board to the desk. “Here, sit down. I’ve been a little worried—you never mentioned in your letters that you were coming. Is everything alright?”
“It’s fine. I’m fine,” Svetlana says, sitting and turning toward Florence, who doesn’t look altogether convinced. “Really. Molokov wanted me here to help ensure Anatoly wouldn’t try to run away again. I don’t think it makes a difference, but… it’s a chance to travel. And I didn’t know if I would ever have another chance to see you in person.”
Florence smiles at her, a grin that overtakes her face. “I’m so glad you came,” she says, taking Svetlana’s hand briefly and squeezing it, and if she’s trying to kill Svetlana she’s making remarkable headway. “I’m—it’s really wonderful to see you. How are you enjoying Spain?”
Svetlana doesn’t know why she was ever worried. Talking to Florence is as easy as anything ever has been. They talk about what they’ve seen since coming here, where Svetlana and her children have been and the places in Madrid Florence visited before making the trip south for the tournament. They follow up on things mentioned in their letters that they didn’t have the chance to respond to before coming here. Florence asks after the children, and listens attentively as Svetlana tells her how they’re handling their first major trip abroad. Svetlana always thought that in her letters, Florence only asked about them to be polite—she has childless friends, and their eyes tend to glaze over if she talks about her children too much. But here, Svetlana can tell that Florence really means it, that she really cares even though she’s never met them, and it makes Svetlana feel…
They don’t notice how many hours have passed until they’re both starving and realize it’s well past lunchtime.
“Jaya is going to kill me,” Florence sighs, frowning at the chessboard on the desk.
“You should get back to preparing,” Svetlana urges gently. “If you lose a game because of me I’ll never forgive myself.”
“Even if I do, this was well worth it,” Florence says. “Freddie said there was good street food in the area. Why don’t we get something to eat before we go?”
They find a stall down the road from the hotel, and Svetlana tries food she’s never even heard of before. They head back to their hotels separately, after sharing promises to find another time to meet and a tight, lingering hug. As soon as Svetlana is turned away, she feels tears prickle at her eyes that she valiantly tries to blink away. She makes a stop at a store or two along the way to substantiate her lie to the nanny, and by the time she makes it back, she’s mostly gotten a hold on herself.
If Svetlana wasn’t sure if she was in love with Florence before, she knows she is now. The thought makes her heart flutter and her stomach sink all at once, which has the combined effect of making her feel a little nauseous. And there were all those little bits in Florence’s letters, that always made her heart ache for days, that made her question everything, pick apart every word in every sentence in her third language and wonder—and now that Florence is within reach, she keeps wondering. Is it possible? Is she just fooling herself?
It’s only three days later when Frederick stops her in a hallway before one of the games. She’s started watching some of them from the audience, because she’s allowed a front-row seat, and sometimes when Florence is entering onto the stage, she locks eyes with her and smiles.
Svetlana tries to ignore her husband’s hunted looks when he spots her. It’s better for everyone when he pretends she isn’t there.
“She’s driving me crazy,” he mutters under his breath.
“What’s wrong?” Svetlana asks.
Frederick shakes his head. “You see that plant in the corner of the hallway behind me?” he asks, his voice low. Svetlana nods, glancing between the plant on a pedestal and Frederick. “She’s going to start leaving notes for you in the pot. Please write back to her, or I might literally start pulling my hair out, and I need to keep all of this intact to be on TV.”
The potted plant becomes the new focus of Svetlana’s universe. She has to force herself not to wander away from the hotel to check it multiple times a day. She writes notes to Florence whenever she has the chance, and Florence writes back, far more than she probably should for someone who is in the middle of a world championship.
But she’s playing well. Svetlana doesn’t know anything about chess, and she knows that. She hears some of Frederick’s commentary, and overhears the gossip in the audience after the games—Anatoly has only won once so far, to Florence’s three wins, and most of the draws he gets are viciously fought for. And still, she finds the time to write her letters, to ask for another meeting during their next rest day.
Svetlana walks herself to Frederick’s hotel room this time. She knocks, and Florence opens the door, and her whole face lights up, and Svetlana never wants to leave this room. She wants to stay enveloped in this hug forever.
“I meant to ask before, what things are like at home for you right now,” Florence says as they curl up on the bed, leaning against the pillows and facing each other. Their knees are touching. “We hear all kinds of things in the news, but there’s no way to know how much is true. I know there are things you might not want to say in writing.”
Svetlana nods, thinking of the way things are degrading, the way it’s harder and harder for the people around her to get what they need. “It’s getting worse. We have been very lucky so far,” Svetlana says. They still have the flat, and they’re both still being paid. Sometimes the lines are so long they take turns between waiting and watching the children—sometimes Anatoly spends all day while Svetlana is at work looking for ingredients she’s asked him to get for her to cook with. But they still have food. Their children haven’t gone hungry. And hopefully, it will never come to that. “I don’t want you to worry about us. We’re fine.”
“For now,” Florence says, taking Svetlana’s hand. She just doesn’t seem to be able to help herself. “If Anatoly loses here…”
Svetlana shakes her head sharply, squeezing Florence’s hand back. “You can’t think like that,” she says. “You worked so hard to get here, Florence. You deserve to win.”
“No one deserves to win,” Florence sighs. “It’s just a game, in the end.”
Svetlana wants to reach out so badly, to brush the hair out of her face. She restrains herself. “Have you spoken to him? Really spoken to him?” she asks gently.
“No. I haven’t had the chance,” Florence shakes her head. She chuckles halfheartedly. “I keep thinking I should apologize to him.”
“Why?”
She shrugs, not meeting Svetlana’s eye. “There’s just so much we never got the chance to talk about. None of it matters anymore, but still…” She pauses, then looks into Svetlana’s eyes. “Are you sure you aren’t upset with me?”
It takes her a moment to even work out what Florence could possibly be talking about, but when she does, she takes Florence’s other hand in hers and squeezes them together. “It is the past,” she says. “I could never be upset with you.”
“Svetlana,” Florence starts, and then her gaze flicks to the side as she bites her lip.
“Yes?” Svetlana asks.
“This is going to sound crazy,” Florence says, chuckling nervously.
Svetlana can feel her pulse quicken. She waits, her heart in her throat.
Florence finally looks back up at her. “I think I’m in love with you,” she says, so softly that if Svetlana had been breathing, she might not have heard it.
A sound wrenches out of her—a laugh? A sob?
“That doesn’t sound ridiculous,” Svetlana says, as her eyes fill with tears and her throat closes in on itself.
Why is she crying? She shouldn’t be crying. She shouldn’t be crying, but she is helpless in the face of a tsunami of emotions—relief, longing, sadness, and so many more mixed together and stealing the air from her lungs. Florence is on her in a second, holding Svetlana close against her chest, and Svetlana clings to her. She cries and she is held, and it’s so much more than she ever thought she would get to share with Florence.
“I’m sorry,” she tries, once she has a little better control of her breathing. She’s getting Florence’s shirt soaked, and is trying so hard not to get snot on her. It’s kind of ridiculous.
“Don’t apologize,” Florence says, pressing a long kiss to her hair as she rubs her back. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
After what feels like ages, Svetlana reluctantly extracts herself from Florence’s hold and retreats to the bathroom to blow her nose and wash her face and hands. She stands there in front of the mirror for a few long moments, looking at own face, red and splotchy. Florence thinks she loves her. Florence held her, hugs her tight, writes to her, looks at her when she’s on stage and Svetlana is in the audience, smiles at her like she’s the only one in the room.
Florence wanders over to the bathroom and leans against the doorway, her arms folded over her chest. Svetlana watches her in the mirror. “I told myself for so long I was imagining things,” she says.
“Me too,” Florence laughs helplessly, a touch sad. “I wish the circumstances were better.”
Svetlana turns around, now face-to-face with the woman she’s been thinking about for years now. She places a tentative hand on Florence’s cheek, and Florence leans in to kiss her. The fact is, circumstances aren’t good. Svetlana is on a time limit. She has to make the most of every second she has.
Kissing Florence is like… It feels right, like nothing she remembers ever feeling before. And maybe that’s just time talking—it’s been a very long time, since she last had someone in her arms like this, against her lips, someone’s hands in her hair and on her hip and back. She feels like she might burst with it, the way it makes her heart soar.
“I love you,” she says, because she needs to, because she doesn’t know how much time she has. Florence grins at her, and her eyes look a little watery. Svetlana kisses her again, because she doesn’t know what she’ll do if Florence starts crying, too.
Eventually they make it back to the bed, lying side by side, tangled up in each other. Svetlana presses intermittent kisses to Florence’s jaw, the closest part of her she can reach.
“I don’t know what to do now,” she admits. Svetlana wants nothing more than for reality to be kept at bay, out of this hotel room, but it still comes creeping in—and eventually, they will both have to leave. “I can’t have you.”
“I know,” Florence says quietly. “I had thought—I mean… your children are here. It’s not unthinkable, that we could help you get away like Anatoly did. But… you have a whole life at home.”
Svetlana nods, her forehead resting against Florence’s cheek. “My family… our house,” she sighs. The children’s baby clothes and old drawings, the family photos, the tableware that’s been in her family for generations—not to mention her siblings, her nieces and nephews, her job… How could she leave all of it behind? How did Anatoly ever do it?
“Right. I could never ask that of you,” Florence says, even as she holds Svetlana tighter.
If she did, though? Would Svetlana be able to say no? The magnitude of it, the great unknown, scares her.
And then the door is being unlocked and pushed open, and Frederick is standing in the doorway. Florence and Svetlana break apart instinctively as soon as they hear the first sound, sitting up on the bed, but not quite fast enough.
“Oh my god, you’re still here?” Frederick blurts, his eyes as wide as saucers as he registers what he’s seeing. He takes a quick step back, his hand on the doorway. “You know what? Nevermind. Stay as long as you want.”
“What’s wrong?” comes a voice from behind him in the hotel hallway, and Svetlana registers the look of panic on Frederick’s face at the exact same time she registers the owner of the voice.
Anatoly’s head appears over Frederick’s shoulder to see what’s going on a moment later. His face goes slack in shock. Busted.
The whole room is deathly silent for what feels like decades. Svetlana’s eyes are locked with Anatoly’s, whose brow is furrowed with alarm and dread. Svetlana didn’t realize she’d been gone so long. She should have said something to him about this, some kind of warning—but she hasn’t seen much of him this tournament, when could she have?
Florence is the first one to break.
“Freddie,” she says, her voice containing some kind of warning as she turns, sliding her legs off the bed and standing. Frederick’s shoulders slump. After a moment of deliberation, he walks inside. Anatoly follows him, almost like it’s automatic.
He closes the door and hovers by the doorway, while Frederick and Florence retreat to the far corner of the hotel room to have a whispered conversation. Svetlana drags herself off the bed and goes to her husband.
“Are you alright?” he asks her in Russian. Her eyes may still be red, she realizes—she feels exhausted suddenly.
She nods, but is she, really? “I’m fine. I just…” She sighs, glancing over at Florence.
“I don’t know what to do,” Svetlana admits, her voice rough. “I love her.”
She looks back up at Anatoly, who nods, staring at the floor between them. With the letters, and with Svetlana coming to this tournament in the first place—how obvious is she, she wonders?
“Are you serious?” Frederick demands, his voice rising above his previous tense whisper. He’s sitting in the uncomfortable looking desk chair, his leg crossed over his knee at the ankle, and he’s flicking his foot in a way that reminds Svetlana of a cat’s irritated tail flicks. “I wasn’t going to help him, Florence, Jesus! We were just going to play some games for fun, it’s not a big deal.”
“And since when are the two of you so chummy?” Florence asks, her voice tense and quiet, her arms crossed over her chest.
“She doesn’t know,” Svetlana realizes.
Anatoly sighs, one hand on his hip and the other covering his eyes like he can’t bare to watch. “Apparently not,” he says.
It startles a laugh out of her, of the ridiculous circumstances of it all—the four of them in this little run-down hotel room in Spain. Anatoly and three people he’s had emotionally fraught relationships with. She doesn’t envy him right now.
Once he composes himself, he straightens and turns toward Frederick and Florence and clears his throat. “I think it would be best if we left,” he says.
He’s right. Svetlana has been gone too long. She needs to eat, and see her children, and take some time to think about all this. And Florence should be preparing for the next game, anyway. But the thought of leaving this room—
Florence crosses the room and envelopes her in another hug in a moment, and they just hold each other for as long as they dare. Even when they part, Florence’s hands linger. “I’ll see you later?” she checks, soft and hopeful.
“I hope so,” Svetlana nods.
Florence crosses her arms over her chest and looks up at Anatoly. For a moment, Svetlana’s heart stops, just waiting, watching their faces—Anatoly’s sad expression, the conflicted look on Florence’s face.
“I’ll see you at the game tomorrow,” she finally says.
Anatoly nods. His eyes flicker over to Frederick for just a moment before he reaches for the door and follows Svetlana out.
Neither of them speak until they’re halfway back to the hotel. “Would you leave with her?” he asks.
The question makes Svetlana’s throat catch. She wills it away. “How can I?” she asks. “The children…”
“You could take them,” he says. “It might be safer.”
“Anatoly,” Svetlana protests, stopping in her tracks. It takes Anatoly a moment to realize she’s not walking next to him anymore, but he does. He takes her arm and pulls her to the side, out of the way of sidewalk traffic.
“Listen to me, please,” he says gently. “I am not going to win this tournament.”
The reality of it feels like a slap in the face. “You wouldn’t lose on purpose,” Svetlana says.
“No,” Anatoly agrees. “These games are very difficult for me.”
He sighs and turns away from her, leaning against the wall, and pulls the band out of his hair to run his fingers through it and replace it. He won’t look at her. It’s easier for him to talk when he doesn’t. “She’s… Florence is very good. She can imitate styles so easily. I played hundreds of games with her when I was in England—maybe thousands. She plays moves that bring back memories now. Things we talked about while playing, or—or moves Freddie would play. She adapts it all so easily into her style. It’s designed to break my concentration. It must be.”
Anatoly never talks to her about chess like this. She listens to his explanation, soaking it all in, marveling at this little window into what’s going through his head as he plays these games. It’s something she’s never known.
“I won’t keep the title this time. I don’t know what that will mean for us—for you or the children,” he continues. “I won’t have anything left to shield me. I am not a popular man back home.”
“You won’t be killed,” Svetlana argues. He’s far too famous for that. “Whatever happens, we can figure something out.”
“But why?” he asks. “You could take the children somewhere safer. They could have a better future in England.”
Very suddenly, she is angry. She steps in front of him, forcing him to look at her. “I am not going anywhere without you,” she says. “If we were to go anywhere—our children deserve to grow up with a father. I will not break our family up again.”
“I don’t know how I could go again,” he says sadly. “Molokov…”
“If you’re able to sneak off to Frederick Trumper’s hotel room, you can sneak into an embassy,” Svetlana says. “We can talk about this later. I need to eat something.”
They get her a sandwich at the little bakery on the way back. Molokov’s men are waiting for them by the doors of the hotel, and Molokov himself is in the lobby. He watches them suspiciously, but seeing them together, he doesn’t bother them. Svetlana thanks God for the favor—she doesn’t think she could deal with him right now.
She takes a nap, then spends the rest of the day with her children. Anatoly stops by in the evening, the first time he’s really spent time with Katya and Andrei since they arrived in Spain. Svetlana watches them and tries not to think that he’s trying to get as much time as he can with them before he has to say goodbye, just in case. She tries not to think about saying goodbye to Florence, or about everything she could be leaving behind.
Svetlana doesn’t get any sleep that night.