Work Text:
Svetlana's standing with her feet in the water. She's alone. She's certain she's being watched, tracked, something like that, somehow. Does it matter? She's going home soon either way. She isn't going to run like Anatoly had. What a way that turned out for him. Everyone's so preoccupied with him at the moment. He's coming home. Lovely. That's just what she had wanted. Lovely for that, and also because all of the focus on him gives her a moment to herself out here.
Someone else. She can hear the footsteps, albeit softly on the sand. She half expects someone to take her by the arm and escort her back to her husband, but that doesn't happen. She looks down at her feet and sees another pair of legs join her. White pants. He takes off his shoes and steps in the water. He wasn't wearing socks, she thinks that's a little odd, but it is what it is.
He speaks up after a moment. "Miss Sergievky."
She doesn't correct him. Not on her last name, nor the wrong honorific. He should at least understand that calling her "miss" isn't correct, shouldn't he? Maybe he knows something she doesn't about her marriage. That it's ending. But then, she knows that, doesn't she? Not on paper, but in practice. Maybe ending it officially would be a mercy. "Your name is Frederick, correct?" She knows his name, just doesn’t want to sound too familiar. Doesn't want to admit how deeply she follows this game. Not the game itself, but the players. She had read all about him last year, when she wanted to know precisely who her husband was up against. It was a big moment in his career. She wanted to know everything she had to in order to support him.
"Call me Freddie." A wave hits his pants. He swears and hikes them up. "What're you doing all the way out here? They're dragging your man home a mile away."
"I wanted to go to the ocean before I leave. Moscow is far from the ocean. We have some lovely lakes and rivers, but it is nothing like this." She takes a deep breath, the salty air filling her lungs. She's never been far from home. She's never left Russia before now. If anything, she can thank Anatoly for that, at least. She can also thank the people who dragged her here for picking somewhere so close to the water to take him to once they managed to convince him. A ways away from the city.
She looks at the American man beside her. She had met him face to face, one other time. He had been so invested in the downfall of her husband. Bangkok is two hours away, two long hours of silence between Anatoly and herself in the back of that car, insisted upon by their chaperones because out here there's less places for him to run. And in the morning, they will get on a plane and go home.
And the American is standing next to her, far away from where he himself is staying.
"Why are you here?"
"Work."
"No." She shakes her head. "That is not what I mean. Why are you on this beach, hours away from your hotel, with me?"
"You think you're the only one who wants to see the sights?" He picks up a rock and throws it out into the water with all his might. There's anger in it.
"You don't strike me as someone with the patience to travel only to see water. And this late at night, with no intent to swim." She turns to him. He's got nothing on him but his wallet in his back pocket. "No intent to do anything but stand here, it would seem."
He throws another rock. Harder. "There are other sights."
"You are still so obsessed with my husband. Is that it?"
He picks up a third rock. He just holds it. She thinks he's probably considering bashing her with it for bringing this up. He drops it. "I wouldn't say "obsessed". I'd say "invested"."
"And is there a difference?"
He goes silent for a long time. The two of them stare out into the water, look at the stars, feel the water rush over their feet once, then twice, then again until they lose count. He steps out of the way as some seaweed washes in towards his feet. She lets it cover her own. She bends down and sticks her hands in the water. It's so hot here, she needs to do this to cool down even at night. She's never had much of a tolerance for heat. He doesn't seem to mind, still in that suit that looks so heavy. At least it's white. Not that the colour matters at night, when there's no sunlight to draw in. She combs her fingers through her hair. A bit of salt water leaves it healthier, doesn't it? She's trying to do something, anything to distract herself from how painfully awkward the situation is. She's never been good at conversation. Neither has Anatoly. That's why they got along so well, once.
"Good luck." He tells her.
"Good luck?"
"At home. I'm not stupid. I know you're not happy with him. All I'm saying is good luck, y'know? Keeping it together. Your kids are gonna appreciate it. As long as you keep your issues out of their face, I mean." He sighs. "Not that you've done a very good job of that so far. But it's his fault, not yours."
"Nobody's perfect, I suppose."
"That's true."
They go quiet again. Svetlana opts to not let things end on an awkward note. "Good luck to you, as well. I don't pretend to know where you're at in your life, but… I hope you find a place where you can live with yourself." She smiles.
He seems caught off guard. Maybe no one's ever said something like that to him. Not encouragement to succeed, to get better, climb higher, but to achieve contentment. Not even happiness, though that would be admirable, but just something he could be okay with. "You too."
They don't say goodbye. They don't say anything else. They stand together for another ten minutes or so before he walks off without a word. She'll never see him again, most likely. That's okay. He's left enough of an impression on her to last a lifetime. She isn't even sure she wants to see him again. That would imply getting dragged back into this whole mess again, something she never would want. Maybe if it were different circumstances, she could see him as a friend. For now, he's an omen of doom. Of the end. This is the end, she's not going to fool herself, it is.
She picks her shoes up out of the sand and walks back to the hotel.