Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Don’t you know that time is not my friend? I’ll fight it to the end. 

—Florence Vassy

THE RULES.

1. There are four characters.

2. Each character must tell their story.

3. When the four characters have told their stories, they will vote.

4. Each character must vote for a story. They may vote for their own story.

5. There must be a unanimous vote for one story.

THERE IS ONLY ONE STORY. THERE IS ONLY ONE STORY. THERE IS ONLY ONE STORY. THERE IS ONLY ONE STORY. THERE IS ONLY ONE STORY. THERE IS ONLY ONE STORY. THERE IS ONLY ONE STORY. THERE IS ONLY ONE STORY. THERE IS ONLY ONE STORY. THERE IS ONLY ONE STORY. THERE IS ONLY ONE STORY. THERE IS ONLY ONE STORY.

There are many versions of our story. This is not one of them. The introduction is a suspension between stories. We call it stalemate. It is between dreaming and waking. It is between falling and hitting the ground. It is between jumping and hitting the ground.

More specifically, it’s jumping from a building and realizing you’ll hit the ground.

Endgame would be hitting the ground.

Resignation would have been never jumping.

This is stalemate — it’s between the two.

It's the act of falling.

STALEMATE.

DATE: Unknown. Irrelevant.

TIME: Night. It is always night.

SETTING: The sea is eternal. It stretches as far as the four CHARACTERS can see (and they can see very little, because it is a moonless night). The four float on a little raft. FREDDIE and ANATOLY sit on one end and play chess. FLORENCE and SVETLANA sit on the opposite end and dip their legs in the ocean. The night is calm (as always) and the sea rocks them gently (as always).

FREDDIE mutters a chess move to ANATOLY. ANATOLY does the same. They have no physical board, so they play using their minds and memories. Water flows around SVETLANA’s skirt and FLORENCE’s legs, but they do not get wet.

FLORENCE: How long has it been?

Under the starlight, FLORENCE’s eyes shine. Tears threaten the night. SVETLANA wishes she could kiss them away, but, when in stalemate, wishes die as they are born.

SVETLANA: Not long enough.

She is lying. She can’t bear to tell FLORENCE any differently.

FLORENCE nods. She takes her dry legs out of the water and wraps her arms around them.

FLORENCE: I trust you.

SVETLANA smiles. She doesn’t trust herself.

On the other side of the raft, FREDDIE whispers a move to ANATOLY. ANATOLY is silent for a minute, and then he makes his move. They speak too softly to be heard by anyone except themselves. They repeat this a few more moves, until FREDDIE grimaces.

FREDDIE: You’re cheating.

ANATOLY: There is no point in cheating here, is there?

FREDDIE: Ha! So you admit it. You were cheating before.

ANATOLY: Before? When?

FREDDIE: You know. With the yogurt. What was it? Strawberry, and, uh… blueberry. Twice, I think. Blueberry.

A beat. FREDDIE looks at ANATOLY desperately. He wants confirmation that ANATOLY remembers this. It’s not really about cheating on a game of chess. ANATOLY, however, does not share FREDDIE’s memories.

ANATOLY: I… didn’t? You know I don’t know what you mean.

FREDDIE: Really?

ANATOLY: I don’t. (Another beat. He can tell this is important to FREDDIE.) I’m sorry.

This is not the answer FREDDIE wanted to hear, but he’s heard it a thousand times before. It is disappointing nonetheless. He is someone who has long learned to let silent panic turn into silent poison. The stiffness in his shoulders is obvious even to ANATOLY.

He looks at FREDDIE with concern. But if he wanted to say something to FREDDIE, the moment has passed. Not knowing what to do, ANATOLY restarts the cycle. It’s always easy to turn to familiarity during distress.

ANATOLY: I’m going to tell the story.

He says this to himself, but the others hear.

There is silence. The raft stops creaking. The sea air feels colder. The CHARACTERS appear uneasy, but ANATOLY has an air of determination. FREDDIE, by contrast, is bothered by ANATOLY’s announcement. We can deduce that he used to resist the sharing of stories the most. Over time, however, the four CHARACTERS have accepted that they are in stalemate. It doesn’t stop them from telling their stories over and over. Maybe it’s an act of defiance; maybe they believe their stories will turn out differently this time.

Maybe it’s because they believe, period.

The tensions mounts and mounts and mounts until—

FREDDIE: Do it, then.

It’s unclear whether he finished his game of chess with ANATOLY, but it no longer matters.

(Important note: ANATOLY always tells his story first. We get the impression that this is because he believes he is the protagonist of all stories. This is not true.)

The CHARACTERS prepare themselves for the sharing of stories by sitting so that they are all facing each other. This should feel rehearsed and habitual, as if they have done this a thousand times. They have, in fact, done this a thousand times. They don’t eat. They don’t sleep. SVETLANA’s hearing aids never lose their charge and FREDDIE and FLORENCE have not needed their medications. 

In stalemate, time is suspended, but they feel the passing of time more acutely than ever.

Seeing everyone settled, ANATOLY straightens his shoulders. FLORENCE and SVETLANA look at him cautiously. FREDDIE looks past ANATOLY. ANATOLY notices this, but he does not address it. He is used to FREDDIE’s behavior.

ANATOLY speaks to the entire group.

ANATOLY: Between us, we have four stories. Only four. I thought we would’ve been able to come to an agreement by now.

SVETLANA: I thought we’d already come to an agreement?

FLORENCE: We have! (She perks up.) We did. I thought we did. I’m not going crazy, am I? Our plan was to pick one story to vote for. It’s not that hard, is it?

ANATOLY and SVETLANA glance at each other. They know more than anyone that it is that hard. However, neither of them want to tell FLORENCE that.

FREDDIE has no problem telling FLORENCE that.

FREDDIE: If it’s not that hard, why are we still here?

It’s a rhetorical question. FLORENCE doesn’t get the memo.

FLORENCE: Why are we still here?

The answer is obvious to everyone except FLORENCE. FREDDIE hadn’t realized she was serious.

No one wants to answer.

SVETLANA breaks first. When it comes to matters related to FLORENCE, SVETLANA is very easy to break.

SVETLANA: Because someone is spoiling the vote. Our votes are secret. We can say we’ll vote the same, but there is no way to confirm we’re actually doing that. So… one of us is spoiling the vote.

She explains this very gently. Everything she says, she says gently. Everything she does, she does gently.

FREDDIE and ANATOLY sit still, because they know SVETLANA is right. Neither of them look FLORENCE in the eye. The thought that someone is lying had genuinely not occurred to her. FLORENCE’s head snaps up and she stares at SVETLANA as she takes it in. The betrayal from one of her fellow raftmates is news to her.

A beat.

Another beat.

ANATOLY: Well. I’m going to tell my story.

The three other CHARACTERS look in his direction. FLORENCE’s expression is still torn. FREDDIE’s expression is unreadable and unpredictable. Everything about him is unpredictable. SVETLANA, however, is very predictable. She is resigned.

The three CHARACTERS have all heard ANATOLY’s story a thousand times. Maybe they’ll hear it a thousand more.

A thousand minus one.

ANATOLY begins his story.

Chapter Text

Anatoly’s story is the most widely known.

In fact, you’re familiar with Anatoly’s story already.

It’s a story about obsession, because obsession is the essence of what it means to be Anatoly Sergievsky.

Like all stories, it begins with chess.

He was a chess player from day one, neglecting his brother’s pleas for playtime and devoting himself to a world of pawns and kings. For the skills he lacked in other areas (particularly in the social sphere), he made up for in chess. How fortunate he was to live in a country where pursuing a career as a chess player was feasible.

Many liked to play, but few could be champions. Anatoly knew this and he wanted to be a champion. He wanted and wanted and wanted and surely all the wanting merited something. He dared to think he was deserving. He dared to think that he could be a champion. Most dangerously, he had the audacity to think he could be the champion.

And what would come after? Irrelevant. All he would focus on was the ascent.

(He was just like Freddie, in a way. He also wasn’t like Freddie at all.)

Pawns and kings aside, a lurking, hungry ambition sprang to life. Careful, it whispered, as life is more than sixty-four squares.

He disregarded this warning. He discovered a deep yearning to commit himself to something. He was finding a reason to live. He was giving his overflowing obsession to something.

He committed himself to chess.

Everything else became secondary, including (and especially) time.

Time being secondary meant that if he stared at the sky long enough, the moon and sun would trade places. Flowers flourished; flowers fell. Sumer fruit was sweet and juicy upon first bite. Second bite, winter fruit was bitter and tasted of memories. Gravel glared up as Anatoly walked sweltering streets. In the same path, leaves crunched under his boots on fall nights. Towards the end of the trail, icy winters unnerved his usually steady step. Suddenly, flowers were blooming along the sidewalk cracks and it was spring again, the season of rebirth.

Birth and decay blurred together. Blink, sunny skies. Blink, years passed. Blink, winter. Blink, where was his youth?

Blink.

SVETLANA.

Blink.

…Blink.

Time stopped rushing.

Or maybe time started flowing.

Svetlana crept up.

He’d committed himself to chess, which meant he’d never thought about romance. He’d never thought about human connection, full stop. Svetlana was like hitting an icy patch with his car. He felt himself skidding out of control, with piercing adrenaline in his stomach and a resounding warmth in his chest.

For the first time, Anatoly wondered if happiness was more than knocking over a white king. Could happiness really stem from a person?

Svetlana was making him reevaluate his priorities.

In a staple of his routine, he’d sit over a game of chess. Instead of thinking many moves ahead, thoughts of curly hair invaded his mind. He started to smell of sweets even when she wasn’t around. He, who’d always favored the color black, was finding beauty in yellow flowers.

She was changing him. More shocking was that his game wasn’t suffering for it. He’d expected thoughts of Svetlana to distract him from matters at hand, but his strategies felt stronger with her inhabiting his mind. Chess pieces danced in sunshine. Svetlana’s smile carried a brilliant analysis. Her hands moved quickly when she signed Russian, her skirts flew out in all directions when she twirled, and the yellow bows in her hair fluttered in the wind.

She was making him better.

During winter, she always wanted to make snow angels. The sound of her delighted laughter was enough to get him on the ground. Afterwards, they’d drink hot tea and snuggle. She played with little robot figurines. She loved to read. She loved to tell him stories in sign language. She loved to put stickers on the walls.

She loved him.

And he loved…

Days stopped blurring with night. Blinking no longer caused seasons to change. Every day was worth living, because every day had Svetlana in it. She loved to cook. She loved to bake. She loved to talk about teddy bears and robots and dogs and books. Chess didn’t stop being his first thought upon waking and his last memory before sleep. Now, he was thinking about chess and Svetlana.

She didn’t play. She listened to him talk about it. She didn’t understand what he was saying, and she didn’t need to. He cared about having someone who would listen far more than he cared about having someone who understood.

He must have missed something, but his relationship with Svetlana suddenly hit another icy patch. You see, he’d never thought about marriage and she’d always thought about marriage. It was Svetlana who proposed. She used a strawberry lollipop ring she’d spent hours cutting into the pretty shape of a diamond. They were in the park, taking the stroll they always took, and suddenly Svetlana was on one knee, holding up her homemade candy ring and her eyes were sparkling with more love than he could ever comprehend.

He felt cornered.

He stood, stiff and stunned, while the wind ran through Svetlana’s curly hair. She looked up at him in anticipation, hopeful that he’d like the ring lollipop she’d lovingly made. It was sweet, just like her. He liked spending time with her. He liked holding her hand. He liked waking up at her side.

Like was close enough to love, right? It was easy to conflate the two, especially when you were inexperienced in both categories.

So he said yes. She squealed and put the candy ring on his finger and embraced him and kissed him. She skipped on their way home, swinging their hands as they walked.

She was pretty. She was kind. She was not chess, but it was unfair to compare a person to a game. She was just a mortal girl.

He kept reminding himself of that. She was just a mortal girl. It didn’t stop him from feeling like he was cheating on chess. Taking the next step with Svetlana meant it was time to take the next step with chess. He was rising in the chess circuit. Impressive play meant frequent traveling. It meant time spent away from his wife. It meant time spent with the object of his obsession — a board game.

The vibrancy of the color yellow faded. Svetlana stopped staining every thought of his. Cities blurred together.

Blink, Lisbon. Blink, Lima, Blink, Frunze. Blink, Moscow.

Blink, Svetlana.

He was still happy to see her. It was just that she was easier to forget. Her warmth never waned, but her infectious enthusiasm had little effect now, as he’d already been infected. It meant he was immune. Making snow angels suddenly seemed silly. She could make snow angels alone if she wanted to. He’d wait inside, sitting with a game of chess and reading a newspaper about the latest players in the circuit.

Blink.

Freddie Trumper.

A budding obsession.

He tried not to think about him.

He didn’t want to think about him. The title was close and far. The only thing standing between him and championship was an American. Not just any American, to be clear — he was talking about the greatest chess player in history. Anatoly respected many of his contemporaries, but Freddie Trumper was something special. His grip on chess was unparalleled. His game was revolutionary. The game drew closer and Anatoly feared he’d never reach the title because of one person.

One person was all it took.

Blink, Merano.

Blink.

Florence.

One person was all it took…

Oh, Florence.

That was unexpected.

She was magic and mystery. She was fantasy and freedom. She was everything he’d ever wanted. The sight of Florence completely erased Svetlana from his mind. Florence, stunning. Florence, belonging on the cover of every magazine. Florence, chess player. Florence, intelligence, beauty, everything good…

Blink, Florence.

Blink, Svetlana, irrelevant.

Blink, Florence.

While in bed with Florence, Anatoly realized that he’d completely lost interest in Svetlana. He hadn’t recognized it before, as he’d had no point of reference. But then he met Florence, and everything fell into perspective. He didn’t love Svetlana. He didn’t know if he ever had. How could he imagine life with anyone but Florence? Florence, Florence, Florence was all he’d ever need. She was all he’d ever want. She was a drug. She was his life. She was his heartbeat.

Blink, holding hands with Florence. Blink, breakfast in London with Florence. Blink, kissing Florence in the shower. Blink, playing chess with Florence. Blink, strolling along the river with Florence. It didn’t matter what he was doing; as long as he was doing it with Florence, it made sense.

He thought he’d found his purpose.

Then he realized something was deeply wrong. It came from within. There was something wrong with him.

Blink.

The next championship.

Florence in their Bangkok hotel room crying over a picture of her younger self with her father. Florence unaware that he’d come back, Florence sobbing too loudly to hear the click of the door. Florence, anguish audible from the end of the hallway. Florence weeping and daring to hope. Florence, whom he thought he loved more than anything, falling apart. Florence, whom he thought he’d do anything for.

He could do something. His hands weren’t tied. He could lose the match. It meant she’d get her father back. When you loved someone, doing something for them came naturally. Right? It was what he’d always thought. But the sight of Florence in her sorry state didn’t make him want to lose. It made him want to win. Harder.

He bitterly acknowledged that something was wrong with him. He was a selfish, pathetic creature. He’d hurt Svetlana. He would hurt Florence. She didn’t ask him to throw the match. She didn’t even mention it. She loved him.

He wasn’t going to throw the match.

Blink, Freddie Trumper.

One person was all it took.

It wasn’t Svetlana who changed his life. It wasn’t Florence. It was Freddie, enemy. Freddie, American. Freddie, smug, obnoxious, board-flipper, brash, insane. Pain in the ass. Freddie, best damn chess player in the world. White king.

They talked about chess. Freddie showed him the problem with Viigand’s Indian defense. Florence and Svetlana became nothing. As Anatoly looked into Freddie’s eyes before the final game, something exploded within. It was familiar and it was raw and it was hungry. It was ambition and yearning and determination.

His story had started with chess and it would end with chess. Freddie had put that into perspective. Anatoly Sergievsky was devoted to chess. It was all he’d ever know. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Anatoly Sergievsky is the winner and remains world champion.

Champion once, champion forever.

ANATOLY stops speaking, but the story lingers.

For three CHARACTERS, there is a painful silence. For ANATOLY, the silence is triumphant. For everyone, it is a pyrrhic victory. ANATOLY takes pleasure even so. He still remembers being at the top. It’s what he holds onto as SVETLANA and FLORENCE sit before him. FLORENCE’s face is tightly controlled and SVETLANA looks on calmly and gently with the patience of someone who knows ANATOLY’s story front to back and back to front and upside down and downside up and knows it won't ever change.

FREDDIE is still unable to meet ANATOLY’s eyes.

SVETLANA: It’s a good story, Tolya.

ANATOLY: Is it? I don’t…

SVETLANA: It is. I didn’t say it was a nice story. I said it’s a good story. Very narratively satisfying. Good themes. Well-structured. So glad you found happiness in chess.

ANATOLY: I didn’t…

SVETLANA: Oh, no? Sad. (She turns to FLORENCE and puts a comforting hand on her shoulder.) Florence, darling, take your time. You don’t need to go right away.

FLORENCE always tells her story second. She isn’t prepared. She isn’t composed. She never is. It’s difficult to tell her story after ANATOLY’s.

ANATOLY looks at FLORENCE briefly. Maybe he feels guilty, because he turns to FREDDIE instead.

ANATOLY: Why don’t you go next? There’s no reason you can’t go.

FREDDIE: You’re a real piece of shit, you know that? Real piece of shit.

ANATOLY is taken aback, but he knows he deserves it. He looks to SVETLANA, deciding not to escalate things with FREDDIE. That never ends well.

ANATOLY: Sveta, would you—?

FREDDIE: Typical. You immediately move onto the next person. So fucking typical of you.

ANATOLY doesn’t want to fight.

ANATOLY: I’m not trying to be insensitive. I just don’t want Florence to go next if she isn’t ready.

FREDDIE: Quit acting like you give a fuck about her. About anything but the game.

ANATOLY clenches his jaw. A quiet anger radiates from him. FREDDIE’s anger, by contrast, is anything but quiet. It is the loudest silence, discordant and chaotic, matching his presence. FREDDIE’s presence always spells disaster.

SVETLANA can sense the impending danger.

SVETLANA: I can go next. I don’t mind.

FLORENCE: No. Please don’t fight. I'll go. (She touches her wrist as if she expects to feel something there. Part of the reason for her discomfort is that she can’t remember much of her story. It embarrasses her, because a thousand retellings on, everyone else can still remember. She doesn’t know why she can’t.) I’ll tell what I can.

The three CHARACTERS look to her. She has to tell her story now, or she’ll never be ready and never is a long time. SVETLANA takes her hand off FLORENCE’s shoulder and ANATOLY and FREDDIE look weary and wary.

But SVETLANA is as comforting as she can be.

SVETLANA: You don’t have to. You know that, right? You don’t have to.

FLORENCE: It’s my turn. I always go second. I am second. (Her voice catches; this hurts to say, but it’s true. She's heard ANATOLY's story enough times to be confident in this.) Let me tell you my story. I…

She trails off. Panic flashes across her face. It's difficult to remember.

SVETLANA (prompting her): Once upon a time…

FLORENCE holds onto the words tightly.

FLORENCE: Once upon a time…

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, there was a princess locked on the thousandth story of a tower. Her chamber was literally on the thousandth landing. Atop the tower of a thousand stories, Princess Florence endured days of loneliness and wanting. Her sole companion was a chessboard she’d carved herself, built from wood that her father brought her every day.

The wood was primarily so that she could keep herself warm, but Florence wanted to play chess. Her father had taught her from an early age. She spent hours whittling away at wooden pieces, trying to make them a thing of beauty. She used berries to stain one set of pieces red and she kept the other a light brown.

At long last, she finished constructing her set. She showed her father. He cast a spell on the chessboard so that the pieces would be glossy and forever hold their shape. The concept of forever was very important to Florence and her father — their Violet Kingdom had been attacked by the evil Scarlet Kingdom when Florence was only five. Florence’s mother, the queen, had been killed. With the kingdom razed, Florence’s father, the king, had fled and locked Florence in the tower of a thousand stories so that she would be safe and no one would ever hurt her again. The outside world was a terrible, terrible place, full of witches and giants and trolls and evil people in evil kingdoms.

Every morning, her father climbed up the tall tower and brought her wood and berries and juices and books. He would spend a few hours visiting her, braiding her hair, playing chess with her, and then he would make the long trip back down the many stories. He spent his nights sleeping in a small shed nearby, as he didn’t have the energy to make the trip up the tower more than once a day. He always needed to get more supplies and he could only carry so many at a time.

One morning, Florence’s father brought her berries and nuts and fresh water and wood. He coughed a little, looking more tired than usual, but assured her that he’d be back the following morning.

He kissed her forehead before he headed back down.

Throughout the day, Florence ate her berries and nuts and drank her water and made her nightly fire to keep herself warm. The following morning, she eagerly awaited her father.

He did not come.

He always came when the sun was above the tree to the left of her window. Routine had taught her this. But morning came and went and Florence told herself that maybe papa had decided to take a break halfway up the stairs. After all, it was a very, very, very tall tower. A thousand stories was a lot of stories. She read and played chess and sang and ran around the length of her room and drew on her walls and tried to ignore the dipping sun.

That night, she was freezing. Without the fire to keep her warm, she huddled up, shivering and trying to ignore the scratching in her throat. She must’ve fallen asleep. When she woke, the sun was no longer above the tree to the left of her window. It was the second day her father had not visited. Florence didn’t feel thirsty or hungry, as every time she swallowed, her throat hurt. But she wanted a fire.

And she wanted her father. His hugs were warm. His smile was familiar. He could cheer her up by telling her stories of chess. She just needed him to come back.

Night fell again. Florence fell into a fitful sleep. On the third day, she barely woke. She was covered in sweat and every breath brought pain. She couldn’t check the sun’s place in the sky, because she couldn’t even sit up. All she could do was cry and plead for her father to come back and hug her, because her throat and her head and her chest and her stomach hurt so so so much. Even lifting her head brought a wave of intense dizziness, so she simply curled up under her blankets and coughed pitifully.

On the fourth day, someone came.

It wasn’t her father.

Florence didn’t wake up by herself. Someone was shaking her shoulder, saying her name loudly. Her ears were clogged and she was still so sleepy. Her vision was blurry, but she could see someone was kneeling beside her.

She’d never seen anyone besides papa in her life. Well, she had, but she’d been five. The memories were distant and remote. She struggled to sit. Her arms buckled when she tried.

“Princess Florence.” The visitor put a hand on her shoulder. “Preserve your strength. I have a potion. It will help.”

“Where’s papa?” Florence tried to ask, but her voice came out hoarse. “Want papa.”

“I’ll tell you,” the person assured, “when you are feeling better. Please, drink.”

“He’s okay?” Sudden alarm sprang within. She’d been too afraid to think much about his absence. Maybe he’d hurt himself while collecting wood, maybe he’d come across an angry giant, maybe he’d decided she was too much of a burden and abandoned her…

“I said I’d tell you when you were feeling better.” The visitor wiped at her sweaty face with a cool, wet cloth. It felt nice. “Here, drink. It’ll make you sleep, but you’ll feel better when you wake up.”

She felt like a lone pawn. She really had no choice. If she wanted to get to papa, she needed to be well. All she could do was hope that this strange boy was unlike the evil people papa had spoken about. She took the flask and drank up.

“Good.” He wiped at her chin again. “Now relax.”

She rested her head on her little pillow. She must have whimpered, because the stranger took her hand and squeezed it, just like papa always did whenever she had a nightmare.

It didn’t take long for sleep to take her again.

She woke up in stages. She could smell fresh bread. Snuggled up in her cocoon of blankets, she felt warm and cozy. Then the memories hit her at once. She gasped and sat up. The first thing that struck her was that she could sit up. Her arms felt like they had energy again. And they didn’t hurt! She could breathe without pain and the paralyzing waves of dizziness were gone. She turned and saw her savior sitting a few feet away. He was bent over her board. He caught her eye and grinned.

“You live.” 

Yes. She lived, thanks to him.

“What’s your name?” Florence wanted to know everything about him. He was friend-shaped. He held a loaf of bread out and she accepted it at once, taking a massive bite. Getting bread required going into the nearest village, so papa only ever brought it on rare, special occasions. It would always be stale by the time he gave it to her. This bread was still warm.

“Freddie.” He wore broken glasses that were held together by sticky sap, but he had a smile that held a thousand secrets. “Just Freddie.”

“Just?” Florence’s mouth was full. She hoped he understood.

He did.

“You’re Princess Florence.” He raised an eyebrow.  “We can’t all be royalty.”

“I’m barely royalty!” She was halfway through the loaf. She’d never been so hungry. “I’ve lived here all my life. Only my papa visits. You can tell me where he is now, by the way. I’m not sick anymore.”

Freddie hesitated. Florence saw something flicker in his eyes — uneasiness. Maybe regret. He set down the rook he’d been holding and turning his body towards her.

“This may sound alarming,” he slowly said, “but he’s been taken by the king of the Scarlet Kingdom. I was spying on—”

“What?” Florence dropped the bread. She no longer felt hungry. Her stomach pooled with nausea. “He was taken? I have to get him back!”

“I don’t think you should worry,” Freddie quickly said, sensing her alarm. Florence wanted so badly to yell at him that it wasn’t his father that been taken by a murderous kingdom. At the same time, she knew she needed to get more information, so it was more advantageous to keep her mouth shut and listen. So she kept her mouth shut and listened.

“Before you yell at me,” he continued, like he could read her mind, “just know that I know what the Scarlet Kingdom did to your kingdom. I understand your reaction. But the old king died; there’s a new king now. His kid. I mean, not a kid. He’s our age. But, you know.” He wrinkled his nose. “King Anatoly is nothing like his father. He’s annoying and weird, but that’s it. I was spying on his carriage, and he came across your father. Your father was very sick, so Anatoly picked him up for medical treatment. I overheard the whole conversation.” A hint of pity flashed across his face. “Your father kept going on about you. He was worried you would also be sick or that you would starve or think he was abandoning you. Anatoly’s people thought he was delirious. They didn’t recognize him. They thought he was just a sick old man.”

Florence sat for several seconds. Then she abruptly stood.

“Let’s go get him back.” What if this new king recognized her father and decided to hurt him after all? Absolutely not. Florence would not allow it. “If you can point me to a map, I’ll go get him.” She looked at Freddie like she was appraising him. She was. “Thank you for your help. You’ve been very kind.”

Freddie also stood. He looked at her with respect, like he saw himself in her. She kind of saw herself in him. Maybe people weren’t as bad as papa said they were. Maybe he’d change his mind if he met Freddie. When he met Freddie.

“I was actually headed to the Scarlet Kingdom myself,” Freddie said. “We’ll go together. It’ll only take a few days if we walk.”

It made sense. The two descended down the tower. Florence saw the world for the first time. She wanted to stop and marvel at the beauty of everything, but they had to get going. They picked some berries and filled their flasks and, soon, they were on their way.

As they walked, Freddie explained why he’d been spying on King Anatoly. It happened that there was a championship to determine the best chess player in all of the kingdoms. For a few years now, it had been a competition between Freddie and Anatoly. Freddie was reigning champion, of course. This year, the match would be hosted in Anatoly’s very own Scarlet Kingdom.

So, yes, Freddie knew the king pretty well. He spied on him sometimes to learn about novel chess moves he might be trying. Anatoly spied back. He was annoying, Freddie repeated, but his crimes extended only to eating bananas at the chessboard.

When Freddie had witnessed the encounter between Anatoly and Florence’s father, he’d quickly whipped up a medicinal potion and set out to find Florence. Like everyone, he’d assumed she’d perished during the attack on the Violet Kingdom. He was glad he found her.

Florence was glad, too. She’d probably be dead if he hadn’t come. Her hand reached for his as they walked. Every step they took together had her wishing more and more that Freddie would take this stupid King Anatoly and wipe the floor with him, as he had already done many years in a row. Florence voiced this, and Freddie laughed, swearing he would do just that.

Night fell and they couldn’t travel anymore. They set up camp. Freddie had brought his tiny travel chess set. He wiped the floor with her. She could see why he was the best player in all the kingdoms. Every move he made left her gaping, staring at the board in fascination and curiosity. She’d only ever played against her father. Freddie was a champion through and through. She actually felt like she was in the presence of a celebrity or something. He ate that up. He was definitely confident in his own abilities, which Florence thought was fine. He was still very nice. When he saw her shivering, he gave her his own blankets and said he’d slept outside on his own many times. When she inquired, he waved her off. 

“You’ve only had exposure to one person’s play,” Freddie said, successfully switching the subject. “You’ll improve so much now that you’re out here.”

Now that she was out here…

She hadn’t really thought about what would come next. Living in the tower of a thousand stories had made her short-sighted. Would she and papa go back to the tower? Florence didn’t want to go back! The world had streams she could swim in and flowers she could braid into her hair and loaves of bread she could eat. Most important of all, the world had Freddie in it. He was like having a friend. She’d read about those in her books.

She brought up the topic of friendship in complete darkness, but she could already picture Freddie raising an eyebrow.

“We are friends,” he assured her. “You might be my only friend. Nah, that’s not true. Svetlana’s my friend. But that makes only two friends.”

“Who’s Svetlana?” Florence wanted to know. She was interested in the possibility of making more friends.

“You’ll see. I think you’ll like her. Either way, leaves me with only two friends.”

“But you’re so nice!” Florence was shocked. She reached over from under her pile of blankets and took his hand. In the dark, it was warm and comforting.

“Eh.” Freddie sounded amused. “Lots of people don’t think so. I didn’t really grow up in a home, so I stole a lot of food while growing up and now people think I’m arrogant. I don’t care. I have reason to be.”

“You do have reason,” Florence agreed. “You played so well. Papa will love you! He loves chess.” She paused, suddenly self-conscious. She’d just thought of something. “Can I ask you something? It might be a little weird. Sorry, I’ve never had a friend before.”

“Go for it.” Freddie squeezed her hand more tightly. She squeezed back.

“In a book I read, two girls were friends and they had friendship bracelets.” Her face flushed. She was grateful for the cover of darkness. “I mean… I’ve never had a bracelet before, and I think maybe it would be nice if—?”

“We got friendship bracelets?” Freddie started laughing. Florence’s face fell and she released Freddie’s hand, about to pull away in shame. Freddie, however, held onto her hand tighter. “No, sorry, that was rude. I’m not laughing at you, I swear. I just think it’s cute. ‘Course I’ll get friendship bracelets with you! I’ll make ‘em myself, actually, how’s that? I have a good idea in mind.”

“Oh, really!” Florence couldn't wait! “That is so kind! Thank you for not laughing at me.”

“Well, thank you for being my friend.”

With that, they went to sleep, still holding hands.

They kept going the following morning. Florence asked about his parents. He quietly admitted that they hadn’t wanted him, so he’d sort of just spent his whole life roaming around. Since he had no affinity to any particular kingdom, he always played at the chess tournaments using the former Violet Kingdom’s flag as a reminder of the Scarlet Kingdom’s cruelty.

Florence decided right then and there that Freddie was her favorite person in all of the lands. She hoped he never felt alone or abandoned again. As his friend, it was her duty to love him forever.

Then… this is where Florence’s memories get a bit fuzzy.

She’s pretty sure they arrived at the Scarlet Kingdom in time for the big chess championship and everything ended up perfectly fine. She got her father back. He’d nearly made full recovery. He thanked Freddie profusely for his help. It seemed that Freddie had been right; her father had never been in any danger. When Anatoly had realized who he was, he’d apologized deeply for his father’s actions.

The championship started. Florence vaguely remembered helping Freddie between matches. She wanted him to win. They spent every evening after the chess matches going over strategies. Freddie appreciated her help. He said she had a very fresh perspective. Together, they worked out different plans.

Then, on the eve of the final match, everything changed.

It’s a fairytale, after all.

Anatoly invited Florence to a picnic in the gardens. She instantly fell in love with him. He was kind and sweet and he said her braided hair was pretty. He kissed her hand. He was easy to love. That was all there was to it. They ended up slow-dancing as the stars dominated the skies and he kissed her and she felt her stomach explode with butterflies. Around them, actual butterflies, glowing in all different colors, made the setting even more idyllic.

Neither of them noticed Freddie. He’d been looking for Florence, hoping to give her the friendship bracelets he’d promised and had just finished. He saw them and instantly clammed up, leaving the garden and its lovers to themselves.

Anatoly probably won the next day. Florence really couldn’t remember.

The two of them lived happily ever after.

Probably.

The end.

But stories like FLORENCE’s don’t have happy endings.

There is discomfort as FLORENCE finishes her story. FREDDIE looks tired and unimpressed. ANATOLY keeps a neutral expression. SVETLANA also does this, but from the sag in her shoulders, we can tell that hearing FLORENCE’s story always brings her sadness, perhaps because she’s not featured in it. After all, her own story features FLORENCE very heavily.

FLORENCE is lost in the muddled memories of her fairytale. When the magic fades and she realizes she’s stuck on a tiny raft in an endless sea with people who are supposed to be familiar yet feel anything but, her spark fades.

FLORENCE: The end. I wish I could remember it better. But you’ve all heard my story before.

FREDDIE: Yeah. A thousand times. Maybe more.

ANATOLY: It’s a story about fantasy and freedom, Florence. It doesn’t matter if you can’t remember very well. You have a very creative mind.

FLORENCE takes great offense to this, though she mutes her reaction.

FLORENCE: This isn’t creativity. It’s not fiction. It’s not a fantasy. This is my story. This is what happened to me.

ANATOLY does not believe this. However, he believes FLORENCE believes this. He nods politely.

ANATOLY: Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I misspoke.

FREDDIE: You’re always misspeaking, aren’t you?

ANATOLY sighs. He has this conversation with FREDDIE very frequently. Maybe that’s why they play chess all the time. It prevents them from actually talking to each other. 

ANATOLY: I do misspeak frequently. I already apologized.

FREDDIE: Piece of shit.

ANATOLY ignores this. FLORENCE runs her hands through her hair.

FLORENCE: I said I didn’t want to start any fights. It’s fine. Maybe my story is fantasy. I don’t know. I’ve forgotten so much of it already. I only remember the beginning.

SVETLANA: That’s okay. (Maybe she’s trying to comfort herself. Maybe, she thinks, FLORENCE simply forgot SVETLANA’s role in her story. Upon more reflection, that isn’t ideal, either.) It’s a genuine story, Florence. Authentic. I’d vote for you in a heartbeat.

FREDDIE has been waiting to explode at something. He latches onto SVETLANA’s words as an excuse.

FREDDIE: Is that a confession? Are you the one who’s been spoiling the vote all along?

This is unusual. FREDDIE and SVETLANA rarely interact. They don’t have reason to. Their stories never seem to overlap. SVETLANA is startled by the accusation and regret immediately bubbles in FREDDIE.

FREDDIE: I’m sorry. Hey, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean that.

SVETLANA studies him. She determines his apology is real, so she nods.

SVETLANA: Thank you. I appreciate it. Also, I am not spoiling the vote.

FLORENCE looks away uneasily.

FREDDIE: Right. (It’s not clear whether he believes her, but he obviously doesn’t want to get into it.) Suppose I should go next.

FLORENCE: Suppose you should.

He looks at her for a long time. There is a lot of shared history there. ANATOLY and SVETLANA glance at each other. They have a lot of shared history, too.

FREDDIE: Okay. Well. This sure ain’t a fairytale.

Chapter Text

Freddie’s story is quite similar to Anatoly’s.

Or, at least, it shares a similar premise.

The difference is that Anatoly’s story was about obsession. Freddie’s is about self-hatred.

Fitting.

Falling.

The world spit Frederick Trumper out on a hateful afternoon. It was the type of hot that drove men mad. Freddie, premature and tiny, lay in an incubator. His parents went home. They came to collect him only after the hospital had failed to reach them nine times. They’d heard that children were miracles and that holding them could change a heart forever. But the tiny, sickly Freddie seemed like the opposite of a miracle. He wasn’t a solution; he was adding to the problem. Every cry of his brought something into his parents’ minds: regret. Regret for him, regret for the world, and regret for their life.

Freddie was his parents’ regret embodied. He learned this very quickly.

Like any child in survival mode, he taught himself chess. Or, at least, he figured this was the obvious thing to do. He’d never been a quick learner, which fueled his feelings of mediocrity, but chess gripped him. Unlike his school subjects, chess made sense. Every day, he learned a new move. Every day, he executed it pretty damn well.

Deep down, he figured he wasn’t very good at chess at all and he was just tricking himself into thinking he was good. The delusions of grandeur kept him going; at least he was self-aware.

One day, he took himself to the city’s chess tables and set up a game. To his surprise, he won the first game. He won the second. He won the third. He won fourteen games in a row until someone three times his age knocked over his white king.

Freddie felt a deep shame that spread hot over his cheeks, but the older player shook his hand in approval.

You’re great, kid, he said. Gotta tighten up some of those defenses, but your offense is excellent.

Was it? Words held little depth. Mom said things that she didn’t mean. All people said things they didn’t mean.

So he couldn’t believe he was good at chess. He didn’t. He went home, tail tucked between his legs, disappointed in his performance. The fact that he’d won fourteen games before his loss didn’t register.

Freddie was no good at anything, so he couldn’t possibly be good at chess.

Because he loved it, he continued playing. He didn’t need to be good to use it as a delicious distraction from his unraveling world. For no particular reason, he started entering tournaments. He started winning. He played against different styles, against different players. They didn’t know what to make of him. He left everyone awestruck.

This still didn’t mean much.

He tried to tell mom about the chess games. He probably tried once a week. Every time, she’d be confused and dismissive, like it was her first time hearing the information. Every time, she asked if he could eat out, because she didn’t have time to make him anything. His prize money went towards bus tickets and the cheapest food from the dollar store he could find.

Then he got older and he found Florence.

Florence, love of his life, Florence, pain in his ass. She was a former literature student and she didn’t know how to dress. She was blank-faced and utterly uncharming. She was blunt. She was socially awkward. She was forward. She was shy. She could silence him with a look. She could make him forget about mom. She played chess against him. Her style changed by the hour. In her play, she ran him over and shook him upside down and left him for dead.

If Freddie was the embodiment of regret, Florence was the embodiment of revolution.

You’re good, she told him.

For the first time, Freddie believed it. He’d needed to hear it from Florence. He played her again and again and again. It was difficult to tell what she was thinking, given how curiously blank her face was, but every so often he caught a glimpse of appreciation in her dark eyes.

It was like something had exploded in him.

He was good at chess. It felt monumental. He felt extraordinary. He was good at chess. It meant his existence was not a mistake. He was worthy of oxygen.

His ego climbed exponentially. The next day, he realized he was great. The following day, he was the best chess player in history. He was so good that he would become World Champion one day. He was so good that reigning champion Anatoly Sergievsky, that stupid Soviet, would run off crying after being up against Freddie’s play. He was so good that he would win the title in such a crushing, mind-blowing game, and mom would watch on the screen and realize Freddie wasn’t where her regret laid; it laid within herself. She’d regret letting him go. She’d regret picking random men over her own child. She’d regret every thorn she’d callously pierced his heart with.

It was very simple and straightforward. The first part of the championship began. Anatoly Sergievsky showed up to Bangkok with his charming smiles and stupid yogurt. So much fucking yogurt. Endless yogurt. Strawberry, blueberry, you fucking name it. Challenger Freddie Trumper arrived, ready to lay Freddie-mania upon Thailand.

And then Florence betrayed him.

Florence, his friend, Florence, his life, decided to suck faces with Anatoly fucking Sergievsky. She’d fallen for the stupid twinkling eyes and good manners. All at once, Freddie realized something: he was alone. He’d always been alone. He’d been a fool to ever think Florence would be different from mom. Florence was just as much of a woman as she was. She’d tricked him with her game, which was admittedly excellent, but she was just like mom. That was all she’d ever be. He didn’t need her. In fact, she was holding him back, poisoning his play. She wanted Sergievsky. She didn’t care about Freddie. She never had. She’d been in it for herself.

He hated her. He really did.

He told her to get out.

She and her defected boyfriend ran off to Budapest, where the second half of the championship would be. Wasn’t Florence making a show of running around the streets of Hungary while holding a camera and pulling Sergievsky along by the hand? She was smiling. He didn’t know she could smile. She had never smiled around him. But now she was allllllll over Sergievsky, always touching him, always kissing him, always taking stupid fucking pictures, always making a fucking show of her insane sex drive… Freddie hated it. He hated her. He hated Sergievsky.

It got worse. Freddie got really bad. Without Florence, he was spiraling. She’d been his net, his anchor, his love, his life, his best fucking friend, the only person he’d been sure he could trust in this fucked-up world. She’d meant promises and truth to him. She was just a pretty facade, because promises were meaningless to her. She didn’t love him. The final match happened and…

And Sergievsky lost.

Fallen champion Anatoly Sergievsky knocked over his black king in defeat.

In that moment, everything crashed down on Freddie.

He was the champion now. He was the champion. Oh, God, he, Freddie Trumper, was World Champion. It felt unthinkable. It felt incendiary. Florence had always represented revolution, but maybe the revolution was in him all along. And as he met Sergievsky’s dark eyes, he felt something within. In the moment, he couldn’t describe it.

They stood. They were to shake hands. Freddie threw himself at Sergievsky for a desperate hug. It lasted far longer than it should have. He didn’t know why.

He didn’t know anything.

He was champion. He, Freddie Trumper, was finally the champion.

He was a winner.

He was the winner.

And that was it.

(Freddie doesn’t share it with the group, but, at the time, a part of him had wondered if Sergievsky threw the match deliberately.)

(No. He couldn’t think like that.)

So he didn’t think like that.

He was the winner.

And that was it.

FREDDIE: And that is it.

The CHARACTERS have all heard this story before. Something about FREDDIE’s story is bothering FLORENCE, but she says nothing. She simply presses her lips together. She has reason to be upset, given FREDDIE’s depiction of her character. But that isn’t what’s bothering her.

SVETLANA sits quietly. Another story she wasn’t in. She’s used to not being included in the stories. She’ll admit that her omission from FLORENCE’s story hurts far more than her absence in FREDDIE’s. She was in ANATOLY’s story and, of course, she’s in her own story. Is 50% bad? Probably, since everyone else is in 100% of the stories.

ANATOLY bites his lip. He releases it not long after. 

ANATOLY: So… you won. You became World Champion.

FREDDIE shrugs. He brims with unspoken acridity. He won’t even meet ANATOLY’S eyes. ANATOLY is dumfounded.

ANATOLY: You don’t want to talk about it? This is unlike you.

FLORENCE: This is unlike you. (She is confused.) In my story, you were always going on about how you were the best in all the kingdoms and—

FREDDIE: Yeah, well, your story’s a fucking fairytale, Florence. It’s a bedtime story for children. It’s not real.

The words are a lash. FLORENCE physically recoils as if slapped, because her story is real to her. ANATOLY frowns at FREDDIE and SVETLANA puts a comforting hand on FLORENCE’s shoulder again. FREDDIE feels the guilt, too, but he feels it a moment too late.

FREDDIE: …Sorry. I just think my story’s the real one.

He opens his mouth to say more but stops short. ANATOLY gives him a moment to continue. When he doesn’t…

ANATOLY: We vote for your story every time, Freddie. All four of us. (He hesitates.) Well, not all four.

SVETLANA: Someone isn’t voting for Freddie’s story.

ANATOLY looks at her, but she does not look at him. For the first time, he wonders if she is the one spoiling the vote. He never realized she wasn’t in FREDDIE’s story. SVETLANA isn’t thinking about that anymore. She is still focused on rubbing FLORENCE’s shoulder. FLORENCE still looks distraught, so FREDDIE clears his throat, realizing how much damage he caused.

FREDDIE: Florence, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I’m really sorry. I swear.

FLORENCE: No, but what if you’re right? (She looks horrified.) I can hardly remember my story. I can only tell the beginning, and then it all gets fuzzy. I’m completely forgetting my story. I don’t want to forget. (She turns towards SVETLANA.) I don’t know why you’re not in my story. You must be. I just can’t remember you. I’m so, so sorry.

SVETLANA was not expecting acknowledgment. She won’t say it, but this means more to her than she can express. In fact, it’s what she’s been waiting to hear. She just wants to know that she matters.

SVETLANA: I…

She scoots to FLORENCE’s side and hugs her. FLORENCE hugs her back tightly. ANATOLY and FREDDIE sit with varying degrees of discomfort. ANATOLY feels awkward and FREDDIE feels like SVETLANA wasn’t ever the odd one out. He feels like he’s been the odd one out this entire time, but that’s his secret.

SVETLANA and FLORENCE pull apart. SVETLANA looks up at the stars. They reflect in her eyes, which are shining more than usual. FLORENCE hugs herself now, looking like she could have hugged SVETLANA for much longer.

FREDDIE: Well. It’s your turn.

He is getting more comfortable speaking to SVETLANA. Maybe he’s just desperate to draw the attention away from himself, a definite inconsistency with his usual character. SVETLANA notices this, but she does not press. She is not cruel. Not now. She simply dips her head in a little nod.

Note: SVETLANA was once very lively and enthusiastic. This has faded since they landed in stalemate. 

SVETLANA: Yes. It’s my turn. I mean, you’ve heard it all before. (She is still looking at the stars. They give her strength.) I’ll tell it again. It won’t change what happened. Nothing can change my story, and all I can do is tell it again. (She momentarily breaks her gaze from the stars to look at the three CHARACTERS.) As usual, I hope you all forgive me. My story isn’t much about chess.

FLORENCE: I want to hear it.

FREDDIE: And me.

ANATOLY: And me.

SVETLANA smiles. She thinks they’re lying, but she’ll delude herself. We finally see a hint of her excitement and passion, even if she’s told this story a thousand times.

SVETLANA: Good! Talk about a captive audience. Well, as you know, my story is set far, far away…

Chapter Text

Svetlana’s story is far out.

It is out of this world.

Her story eclipses all others.

Incidentally, it began with an eclipse.

Her spaceship was massive. As the head engineer, she’d designed it and overseen construction. It had finally launched! Now she lovingly visited every nook and cranny, putting band-aids on the cracks whenever it needed repairs. She’d been tasked with changing history: building a ship that would withstand travel through wormholes! It had seemed impossible, but she’d done it. 🥳 She’d designed the ship and it had traveled through four wormholes so far. Humankind was exploring the most mysterious corners of every universe, all thanks to CHESS (the inCredibly Happy and Extraordinary Super Spaceship). She’d come up with the name herself. IHESS didn’t have the same ring to it that CHESS did. Thankfully, no one knew what CHESS stood for. Everyone thought she just really liked chess.

She didn’t. She liked space and cool acronyms.

On the day of the eclipse, she was working on the propellants. They’d driven through an asteroid belt and there was minor cosmetic damage to the paneling. The job didn’t call for the head engineer to do repairs, but Svetlana had nothing else to do and she liked fixing cosmetic damage (by expertly putting a large amount of glittery stickers over the scratching). In that moment, however, the stickers were doing little to cheer her up. She was on a call with her ex-husband. He was millions of light-years away, living on a particularly temperamental planet called Rouge, and he was a professional chess player. Which was fine. Svetlana didn’t mind that. She did mind the way they still had to file their taxes together. The space bureaucracy was so slow they’d probably have to file their intergalactic taxes together for seven more years.

She wasn’t against taxes. She was against having to be on the phone with Anatoly to sort them out. The divorce had been painful; she’d cared about him and he’d cared about chess. The call was connected through her hearing aids and his voice came through loud and clear, as if he really were beside her.

She was glad he wasn’t.

“I don’t think we can claim that deduction.” She put another sticker on the paneling. “I explained this already, Tolya, dear. That deduction only applies to couples who are a million light-years apart or less.”

“We are less than a million light-years apart.” Anatoly sounded equally frustrated. “Thanks to the Trumper-Vassy wormhole, we’re only a few weeks apart.”

He did not sound particularly thankful for the Trumper-Vassy wormhole.

Svetlana certainly wasn’t.

“A wormhole is temporary.” She was running out of stickers. She was running out of patience. “Close it, and we’ll be millions of light-years apart. So we can’t claim that deduction.”

“I think we can claim it.” Anatoly always said things so confidently. Even when he was wrong. Especially when he was wrong. She’d loved that about him — how confidently he said the stupidest shit. It was not attractive anymore.

“Do you want to go to jail or something?” She wished she could wipe her sweaty brow. Spacesuits had come a long way, but she still had to cover every inch of her body when outside the ship. “I don’t. The incarceration planet’s temperature is 5 Kelvin this time of year.”

“We aren’t going to end up there for taking a deduction we’re allowed to take,” he snapped, and Svetlana almost disconnected the call. He needed to watch the way he was speaking to her. She opened her mouth, but she realized the call really had disconnected.

The nerve!

She was more shocked than upset. Then it became very dark, and she realized he hadn’t dropped the call after all. A commercial spaceship was merely passing in front of the nearest star. It always caused short eclipses and tended to drop communications briefly. Svetlana didn’t care. For now, her heart rate picked up, because Dr. Florence Vassy, the very one that’d created the wormhole, was coming to work aboard CHESS. Svetlana rushed to reenter CHESS so that she could meet Florence and her friend at the landing station.

Once inside, Svetlana quickly pulled off her spacesuit and ran towards the main entrance. She was thrilled to meet Dr. Vassy, relativistic and quantum gravity physicist. She’d proven her competence in relativistic laws with her very own wormhole; she was setting out to prove theories of quantum gravity by working on some secret project Svetlana wasn’t allowed to know about. It was fine. Svetlana probably wouldn’t understand it even if she could hear about it.

She made it to the landing station just in time. Of course, she’d seen Florence on television and printings and they’d even spoken via hologram, but nothing could compare to seeing her in person. She looked amazing, despite having recently traveled through a wormhole. Her friend was with her. He’d be staying for a couple of weeks before heading back.

“Hello?” Florence outshone every star Svetlana had ever seen (and she’d seen a lot). “Svetlana! It’s a pleasure to finally meet with you!”

“It’s, uh, mine,” Svetlana stammered, nearly tripping, which was quite the feat considering the weakened gravity. “The pleasure, I mean. All mine. Hello. You’re very beautiful. Your hair is so pretty.”

Florence seemed taken aback, but she flushed. Her friend smirked, then waved at Svetlana.

“I’m Freddie. I don’t do the whole science thing. I’m just a chess player.”

“You’re just…” Svetlana trailed off. She hadn’t put it together, but she should’ve. A chess player. Freddie. The Trumper-Vassy wormhole, named after Florence and her best friend… Svetlana frowned. “Not Freddie Trumper as in Intergalactic Chess Champion Freddie Trumper?”

“That’s the one!” He seemed pleased, but he noticed her frown. “What, you saw the press conference where I threw an icicle from Gliese 436b at the reporter? He was asking for it. And I—”

“No,” Svetlana said, but she meant yes. She had seen the press conference. It wasn’t why she was frowning. “Sorry, I haven’t had a good experience with chess players. I’m sure you’re very nice.”

Also, my ex-husband hates you, she thought.

“That’s the spirit, sunshine!” Freddie winked. Svetlana blinked. Florence elbowed him, then sighed.

“Can you take our stuff?” she asked him. “I’ll tour the ship with Sveta. I’m getting started right away. I have some history to change.”

“Workaholic,” Freddie accused.

Florence raised an eyebrow.

“Pot calling the kettle black.”

“Whatever.” He grinned and took her suitcase. “Go make some worms or something. See ya both.”

“Wormholes, Freddie. I… okay.” She watched him leave. Her smile was exhausted, but it met her eyes. “Sorry about him. He’s been my best friend for, like, ever. He’s just… always like that.”

Svetlana didn’t mind. Freddie had been nicer in two minutes than Anatoly had been in five years.

She and Florence headed towards the control room. Due to the weird bureaucracy and its inefficiency, Florence and Svetlana, in completely different fields, would be sharing an office.

Thanks to the weird bureaucracy and its inefficiency, Florence and Svetlana would be sharing an office. Svetlana’s cheeks burned. She’d have to start working harder on her hair and bringing yummy baked goods that would maybe impress Florence. Maybe they could eat lunch together sometimes. Maybe they could talk sometimes. Maybe they could…

ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

So many things they could do!

“One time,” Florence was thoughtfully saying, still talking about Freddie and completely oblivious to Svetlana’s disaster thoughts, “he was visiting Earth — Bangkok, specifically — for a chess match and all he did was play chess. He didn’t party once. He thought he was partying by playing chess. He came back and told me all about how hard he’d partied, and then I realized we had wildly different definitions of partying.”

“Oh.” Svetlana nodded. “Chess players are insane. I know this. Yes.”

“You get it! I mean, I play, but that’s irrelevant.” The moment they entered the control room, Florence sat down and rubbed at her temple. “Oof, slight headache. But I do want to see the ship. I want to get started on my next project.”

“Of course!” Svetlana looked at her in concern. “But you should sleep! We already have your Xyrem prescription onboard, by the way, as well as Freddie’s epilepsy medication—”

“Thank you.” Florence leapt back to her feet and pulled her hair back. She meant business. “I appreciate it. Really. I’ll sleep later.”

So she would.

That night, after they’d all gone to their pods, Svetlana couldn’t sleep. She stared out her window and saw stars. She could almost forget where she was. She could imagine she was in Rouge or in Earth. She could imagine she was anywhere. She could forget why she’d decided to flee her home universe.

She stared at the stars some more. They were beautiful.

But they still couldn’t compare to Florence.

Florence settled in nicely. She was obsessive about her work, but she relaxed in the evenings, always playing chess with Freddie in the greenspace of the atrium. The two of them sat on grass and played match after match. They had fun. They would laugh and tell jokes and show each other different moves. Svetlana would watch from a distance.

She could only imagine what it was like to be that close to anyone at all.

Unfortunately for Florence, Freddie couldn’t stay forever. When he left, Florence sat in the atrium by herself, her arms wrapped around her knees and staring tearfully at the ground beneath her. Svetlana almost ran to her, but she didn’t want to make Florence feel embarrassed (or, worse, uncomfortable). A tiny part of Svetlana was 👀 at the sudden opportunity: Freddie had gone and Florence needed a new friend.

Maybe Svetlana could be that friend.

She tried to be friends with Florence. It went well. They made each other laugh from their respective desks. They ate lunch together when they didn’t want to leave the office. They dedicated one entire wall of their office to pictures of cute animals and robots and stupid memes. They complained about the space bureaucracy together.

It was wonderful. Life was wonderful.

But even perfect situations had to go wrong.

Florence missed Freddie, of course. She missed playing chess. Svetlana offered to play, because even though chess had caused her so much pain, Florence liked it. Florence took her up a few times, but Svetlana knew she wasn’t good enough. Florence was just too kind to admit it. She’d teach Svetlana a few strategies and tell her she was off to a great start.

Svetlana knew she couldn’t possibly give Florence the thrill of a shattering game.

So Florence looked for chess players online.

She found one.

She started coming to work with sparkles in her eyes. She still played with Freddie fairly regularly, but he was currently in an atrocious timezone. Her new partner’s timezone aligned with theirs pretty nicely. He knew all sorts of moves. He knew all sorts of games.

Florence started messaging him during lunch. She spent longer on her hair and makeup when she would hologram him to play.

Then the inevitable happened. She confided to Svetlana that she’d fallen in love with him.

“It’s been… a month?” Svetlana weakly said, trying and failing to ignore the sudden stabbing pain in her stomach. She should have been happy. Florence was her friend. She was beautiful. She was intelligent. She had a whole freaking wormhole named after her. Everyone loved her.

Svetlana was stupid to think Florence would ever see her as anything other than a friend.

She should have been grateful that Florence could even see her as a friend.

It didn’t stop the jealousy and the hurt that came with it.

“I know it’s been a month,” Florence admitted. Her cheeks were rosy. “I know I fall in love quickly. But I love him, Sveta, I really do. And he loves me!”

“Does he?” She begged her chin to stop quivering.

“Yes!” Svetlana had never seen Florence happier. “I know he does. And he’s so cute, Sveta. He’s so sweet. He lives in Rouge. His name’s Anatoly. He’s mine.”

…………………………………………………………no.

No.

No way.

There were billions of Anatolys across the universes. There were probably millions on Rouge alone. The chances were basically nothing. But Anatoly had always managed to beat the impossible—

“We took a hologram selfie!” Florence pulled it up on her phone. Svetlana felt faint. It was Anatoly. It was fucking Anatoly Sergievsky. He had an arm around Florence. “Don’t you think he looks so sweet?”

“No.” Maybe it was rude, but Svetlana had no kindness left. She’d built a spaceship and moved across a million universes to get away from Anatoly and he was still haunting her. The tears fell without permission. “I don’t think he looks sweet at all. He looks like he commits tax fraud.”

Florence stared at Svetlana, trying to see if it was a joke. When she saw Svetlana’s tears, she immediately set her phone down and looked at Svetlana with deep concern.

“Are you okay?” She was lost. “I’m sorry if I’ve said something. Have I missed...?”

“No, I just think he looks like he commits tax fraud!”

Svetlana ran.

She’d ran from Rouge. She’d ran a million galaxies away. All she could do now was run from Florence, but it wouldn’t be enough. Svetlana could run to the deepest, darkest corners of the furthest universes and it still wouldn’t be enough. Anatoly would never go away.

He would never go away.

Things became awkward with Florence. Svetlana pulled away. She didn’t want to accidentally snap or say something rude to Florence. All she could do was grit her teeth. Florence slowly stopped talking about Anatoly. She slowly stopped talking, period. Their former lively lunch conversations were replaced with Svetlana leaving for the full lunch hour and then returning to the office in an uncomfortable silence.

Freddie ended up playing against Anatoly in some championship. The news was everywhere. To put the cherry on top, Anatoly won, and Florence watched the screen with hearts in her eyes.

She left work early that day, probably to hologram Anatoly and congratulate him and dote on him.

Svetlana had no words.

Her story was a tragedy. It didn’t eclipse the other stories. Her own story eclipsed her. She was sidelined in her story. It was just another story about Florence and Anatoly, but this time it was told through her eyes.

She wishes she had a different story to tell.

FLORENCE: Wait. What?

FLORENCE is shocked. FREDDIE and ANATOLY seem equally stunned. SVETLANA looks between the three of them, unsure of what the problem is.

FLORENCE can hardly find the right words.

FLORENCE: You’d never told it like that before. Sveta. You changed your story. The way you’ve always told it, I assumed you were upset with me because you still loved Anatoly.

SVETLANA: Oh. No. I was upset because I… (She’s too afraid to say it out loud.) I’m sorry I didn’t make it clear before.

She is suddenly self-conscious and ashamed. She is worried FLORENCE will reject her. FLORENCE, however, is still trying to work through the surprise. ANATOLY and FREDDIE glance at each other.

ANATOLY: You told a different story, Sveta.

FREDDIE: Is that allowed? You can’t change your story. (He looks around, hardly daring to hope.) Can you?

SVETLANA: No. You don’t understand. I didn’t tell a different story. It’s the same story it’s always been. You all assumed I was still in love with Anatoly. I wasn’t. (She briefly makes eye contact with him.) I did love you, once. But the truth is that I’d fallen in love with…

ANATOLY: You never said that.

SVETLANA: I didn’t. I’m sorry.

The energy on the raft has shifted. FLORENCE is still in shock over SVETLANA’s confession. FREDDIE is thinking very deeply about something. ANATOLY is troubled.

ANATOLY: Well, it… doesn’t matter, I suppose. It’s a nice story. Doesn’t make it the real story. Changing it can’t—

SVETLANA: I pray you wake up one day and realize that it's real to me. It’s not just a story. It’s my life. These are my memories. Please stop dismissing them.

ANATOLY is still having trouble understanding this. To him, it is so obvious that his story is the real story.

FREDDIE looks to SVETLANA.

FREDDIE: You didn’t change your story, but you told it differently. Can it affect things?

SVETLANA: Affect what?

FREDDIE doesn’t know the answer to that. Neither do any of the other CHARACTERS.

It doesn’t matter anyway, because time is up.

The CHARACTERS have finished telling their stories.

It’s time to vote.

Chapter Text

We see that each CHARACTER now has a piece of paper and a pencil. There is a bowl with a small fire in the middle of the raft. We don’t know where these materials came from. The CHARACTERS don’t know either; they’ve long stopped questioning it. By now, they’re familiar with the voting process. FREDDIE glances in ANATOLY’s direction. FLORENCE’s hands tremble. SVETLANA looks to the skies, missing her home in space.

Each CHARACTER puts down their vote. ANATOLY and SVETLANA write their votes down instantly and throw their papers into the fire. FREDDIE and FLORENCE take longer. Several beats later, FREDDIE writes his vote down and puts it in. Everybody looks at FLORENCE. When the pressure becomes too much, she hastily scribbles her vote and adds it.

VOTE:

ANATOLY’S STORY: 1

FLORENCE’S STORY: 0

FREDDIE’S STORY: 3

SVETLANA’S STORY: 0

INCONCLUSIVE.

START AGAIN.

FLORENCE puts her hands over her face, but none of the other CHARACTERS react. ANATOLY and FREDDIE look down. SVETLANA scratches at her temple.

FLORENCE: This happens every time. Every fucking time. I thought it was a mistake, but now I know someone is purposefully messing up the vote. Who?

SVETLANA: Not me.

FREDDIE: Not me.

ANATOLY: Not me.

FLORENCE says nothing. FREDDIE sharply looks at her.

FREDDIE: Are you?

FLORENCE removes her hands from her face and turns to FREDDIE. She looks like she could hurt someone.

FLORENCE: Are you? Are you scared we’ll choose your story? Shouldn’t you be happy? Why did we decide we’d vote for your story in the first place? I can’t remember.

FREDDIE: You can’t remember a lot of things, sunshine. You can’t even remember your own story.

SVETLANA: We’ve been here for a long time.

FREDDIE: Yeah, but there are some things you can’t forget. Like your own story. How the fuck did she forget her own story?

FLORENCE: I told you my story! I always tell as much as I can remember!

FREDDIE: Which isn’t a lot. (He realizes how aggressive he sounds and tries to tone it down. It’s difficult. He’s a natural escalator.) Whatever. Doesn’t matter.

ANATOLY: What matters is we’re still here. (He can be a voice of reason. Sometimes.) We all agreed to vote for Freddie’s story because we wanted to live on Earth and we wanted access to modern technology. That left my story and Freddie’s. And I understandably upset more of you with my story, which is why we decided on Freddie’s. It’s not the best, but it’s the best we have.

FREDDIE: Shut up. I’m going to kill you.

ANATOLY: You can’t.

It’s true. He can’t. None of them can die while in stalemate.

SVETLANA: What I don’t understand… (They all look at her. She is surprised by the sudden attention; she’d been talking to herself. She clears her throat and speaks a bit more loudly.) What I don’t understand is… the purpose, I guess? I don’t know if that’s the right word. The guidelines, maybe? What are we voting for, exactly? We are voting for one story, but what about it are we voting for? The happiness? The happiest story? The story we wish were true? The story we think is true?

FLORENCE: The metrics.

SVETLANA: Yes, that’s the word! The metrics. How are we supposed to judge the stories? How are we supposed to make our decision?

ANATOLY: I don’t think we have specific criteria. All we know is we have to choose one story.

SVETLANA: Do we decide our own metics?

FLORENCE: How did we decide on Freddie’s story, again? I can’t remember.

FREDDIE: You can’t remember shit, Florence.

ANATOLY: Freddie. Please be quiet. (Miraculously, FREDDIE is quiet. ANATOLY uses the silence to think.) Well, I suppose we thought which story would be the most ideal for, er, most of us to live in. I think I prefer my own story, but I know you all wouldn’t vote for mine. Freddie’s was the one we could compromise on.

FLORENCE: Is that really what we did?

FREDDIE: How the fuck do you forget, Florence? How the fuck did you forget me?

It’s getting personal. We get the impression FREDDIE is referring to his own story, in which FLORENCE walked out on him to follow ANATOLY for the second half of the championship. FLORENCE realizes what FREDDIE is referring to. She doesn’t say anything, because she can’t remember experiencing FREDDIE’s story. It isn’t her story. She can’t even fully remember her own.

SVETLANA sits up. She wants to say something.

SVETLANA: I have an idea. I think—

ANATOLY (still talking to FREDDIE): Florence has had it pretty hard. It’s understandable that she wanted to forget.

FREDDIE: Oh, she had it hard? She had it hard? Who made it hard for her, you stupid fuck?

FLORENCE: I didn’t want to forget—

ANATOLY: I don’t understand your hostility. We agreed to vote for your story. You won.

FREDDIE: Look around, genius. We’re still here. My story hasn’t gotten a unanimous vote.

FLORENCE: I said that I didn’t want to forget—

ANATOLY: Is that what you think will happen when we finally get a unanimous vote? We’ll be free from this hell? I think it’s time we consider we belong here.

FREDDIE: You belong here.

FLORENCE: I didn’t want to forget! I hate that I can’t remember my own story!

FREDDIE: If you wanted to, you’d remember.

ANATOLY: Who is spoiling the vote? Who’s keeping us trapped here? (He looks around the raft, desperate.) You can confess. Just tell us. Please.

FREDDIE (at ANATOLY): Is it you? (He looks at FLORENCE.) Is it you? Is it the two of you? Still trying soooo hard for your stupid happy ending? Lying about not being able to remember? Determined to keep us here until you get things right? Selfish commie fuckrabbits. Dragging us all into your stupid relationship issues. The hell did me and Svetlana ever do to you?

FLORENCE: Freddie!

ANATOLY: The hell did we ever do to you?

SVETLANA: Hello. I was hoping I could share my idea. I don’t think this will get us anywhere right now.

FREDDIE (completely ignoring SVETLANA): Do to me? You have the nerve to ask that? Fucking cheating commie, you know what you did. I’ve told you a thousand times.

ANATOLY: And you’ll tell me a thousand more until we can sort this out. Are you spoiling the vote?

FLORENCE: Sveta. (Her voice is loud and strong. It manages to make ANATOLY and FREDDIE both shut up, which is a monumental feat.) What’s your idea?

SVETLANA did not participate in the argument. She’d been trying to formulate her words.

SVETLANA: I was thinking. We’ve told each other our stories so many times. Last round, I told mine a little differently. So I was wondering… for this next round, instead of starting our stories over, let’s continue our stories. Let’s tell the next part. The part that we haven’t told yet.

FREDDIE: What are you talking about? I told my story. There’s nothing more to say.

FREDDIE had an immediate response, but ANATOLY and FLORENCE consider SVETLANA’s words. For chess players who look many moves ahead, they hadn’t considered that option.

FLORENCE: We tell… what happened next?

SVETLANA: Yes. The story might be over. It kind of like a book? When you told your stories, you went through the end of your respective books. But the story continues after a book is over, right? So let’s tell each other what happens after the book ends.

FREDDIE: No. Hell no.

FLORENCE likes the concept, but she doesn't think she can execute it. 

FLORENCE: I don’t think I remember what happened next.

SVETLANA: Try, please? (She turns to Anatoly.) Tolya, what do you think?

ANATOLY: I like the idea and I do remember my story. It’s not exactly something I want to tell.

FLORENCE: Why not? I thought you loved your story.

This is a difficult topic.

ANATOLY: I believe my story is the true story. I don’t love it.

SVETLANA: Tell us why. Tell us what happened next.

ANATOLY: It’s not about what happened next. I’d just rather not revisit my story.

FREDDIE: Incredible. He’s finally making sense. Let’s none of us revisit our stories.

SVETLANA won’t give up. This is important to her. She’s tired of being talked over. Her eyes bore into ANATOLY’s.

SVETLANA: Why? You haven’t given us a reason. Tell us the rest of your story.

ANATOLY: No. I don’t want to. (He shakes his head rapidly, quickly losing his composure.) I can’t.

SVETLANA: Yes, you can.

FLORENCE: You can.

FREDDIE: Hey. (He looks around the raft. If ANATOLY tells the rest of his story, he’ll have to tell the rest of his story. It’s in his interest to keep this from happening.) What happened to not forcing people to do shit they don’t want? Man doesn’t wanna tell the rest. Let’s let it go.

SVETLANA: Freddie, with all due respect, the two of you were fighting a minute ago. I don't believe you have his interests in mind. I also don’t want to let this go. Why won’t you tell us, Anatoly?

FLORENCE: Why don’t you tell us?

FREDDIE: Because he doesn’t want to! Christ.

This is personal. There is a hint of pain in FREDDIE’s voice. SVETLANA detects it. Pity flashes over her face, her gaze lingering on him, but she knows this is too important to skip.

She turns back to ANATOLY.

SVETLANA: Tell us your story. You were the one that wanted to tell your story first. You always start us off. So tell us your story.

FLORENCE: Tell us your story.

ANATOLY is cornered. He finally lacks confidence. There is fear in his eyes. Up until now, he’d looked incapable of it.

SVETLANA sees this, and she knows that she’s checkmated him.

FREDDIE can see it, too.

FREDDIE: Hey.

FLORENCE: Anatoly, tell us your story.

SVETLANA: Tell us your story. Black goes first, right?

ANATOLY, FREDDIE, and FLORENCE: White goes first.

SVETLANA laughs. She should’ve expected this.

SVETLANA: Chess players! You’re all insane. (She shakes her head.) You’d think black goes first with how much Anatoly Sergievsky loves the spotlight. (She looks at him again. She is dangerous.) Tell us your story.

Every word is punctuated.

She’s no longer asking.

ANATOLY realizes this. He is significantly paler.

She is the reason he doesn't want to tell the rest of his story.

Chapter Text

You may recall that Anatoly’s story was about obsession. That obsession stretched to chess.

Welcome to the second part of Anatoly’s story.

We get an important bit of context here.

You see, he failed to mention something in the first part. Something rather important. Slipped his mind, maybe.

There were two children.

As in, he had two children. With Svetlana.

He and Svetlana had two children.

He's never gotten around to telling that part of the story.

So here is that part.

Anna and Milo. Those were their names. Anna and Liudmila, except Mila started to spell her name with an 'o'. She didn’t like the traditional feminine ending. She wanted the neuter ending.

Milo loved ice skating and bugs and science and rock-climbing. The last time Anatoly and Svetlana had taken her to get her hair braided, she requested blue braids. She’d looked fine, but it was the joy in her eyes upon seeing the bright blue color that’d made everything worth it. She’d spent all afternoon in front of her mirror, staring at her hair in wonder. Milo and her blue hair and her oversized glasses and her little telescopes and collection of bugs against the world. Milo was extraordinary.

Milo was a wonder.

And Anna!

Anna wanted to be in the movies. Becoming an actor was difficult enough. Deaf actors had even lower chances of being cast, but Anna said it wouldn’t stop her. She acted in school plays. She was involved in the community theatre. She was the only participant in a monologue competition to deliver her performance in sign language, and she'd won second place. Svetlana and Milo had been in the front row of the audience, cheering her on. Anna was amazing, a rising star! She was shy when she was off the stage, always hiding behind books and drawing pads, but she sprung to life when she had a script.

Anna was a wonder.

Milo and Anna were wonders. Anatoly and Svetlana had pretty great kids. They had fucking amazing kids. Milo was a little fashion icon and a budding scientist. Anna was their little actress and artist. It was objectively true that they were incredible.

He should have started his story with Milo and Anna.

Blink, Svetlana taking the pregnancy test and then jumping up and down and screaming in excitement. Blink, buying baby clothes with Svetlana. Blink, decorating the nursery. Blink, their little Liudmila in a bundle of blankets. Blink, toddler Mila climbing up everything she could find. Blink, Mila spelling her name as 'Milo' as soon as they explained the different noun endings in school. Blink, Milo finding out she was going to be a big sister. Blink, Milo holding little Anna’s hand as they ran around the park. Blink, Svetlana translating a song into sign language for Anna. Blink, Milo singing and Anna signing the song in the living room.

Blink…

If Anatoly really loved them more than anything, his story would have gone differently. He wouldn’t have ran off with Florence. He wouldn’t have cared more about chess. Before he broke Florence’s heart, he broke his family’s. He broke Svetlana’s heart and he broke Milo’s heart and he broke Anna’s heart. It had always bothered Florence that he’d abandoned his children, but it hadn’t been a dealbreaker. That was what he'd clung onto. He’d idolized Florence, but she was just as bad as him. She knew about the kids. It didn’t stop her from letting him run off with her. Didn’t stop her from sharing a bed with him. Didn’t stop any of it.

It bothered her, but not enough.

It bothered Freddie. Anatoly learned much later that this was because Freddie had once been Milo and Anna. This was how Freddie ended up the way he was, and this was how Milo and Anna could end up.

So this is where Anatoly’s story wraps up.

Anatoly Sergievsky is the winner and remains world champion.

He went back. 

Anna accepted him with open arms. She was still at the age where she loved unconditionally. Milo, however, was angry. She didn’t want him back. She’d seen the pictures of him and Florence and she’d heard her mother crying at night. Anatoly didn’t deserve her forgiveness.

He knew it was true.

Svetlana wordlessly handed him the divorce papers. Anna cried for an hour and Milo comforted her and glared at Anatoly.

Anatoly tried not to think about Florence. About Freddie. About chess.

Chess was the one thing he could never stop thinking about.

He signed the divorce papers.

His ex-wife hated him.

One child hated him, and the other would also hate him one day.

And that was it.

SVETLANA: There were children.

ANATOLY: Yes.

SVETLANA: You forgot our children.

ANATOLY: No. I didn’t. I just didn’t mention them. They didn’t exist in your story, I take it.

SVETLANA: We were divorced. We never got around to having children. But we had children in your story. We’ve told our stories thousands of times to each other and you never mentioned our children.

ANATOLY: I’m sorry.

SVETLANA: Are you?

ANATOLY: I don’t know.

SVETLANA: I don’t think you are. What’s most disturbing is that you didn’t just leave me in your story. You left our children.

ANATOLY: I know. I’m sorry.

SVETLANA sharply turns away. She's always wanted children. The confession has brought a new hole to her already hole-punched heart. She wants, more than anything, to meet them. She'd do anything to meet them.

FLORENCE is silent with guilt. She feels worthless and slimy and pathetic.

ANATOLY (looking around): No children in any other stories?

FREDDIE: No. Not in mine.

FLORENCE: I… don’t think so. I can’t remember.

SVETLANA: How do you neglect to mention our children? I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.

ANATOLY: I’m sorry. I did love them. I do. I just wanted something for me.

SVETLANA (snarling): We all want something!

She is fueled by disgust. She can’t even look at ANATOLY. She looks into the distance, watching the still water of the sea. She'll spend the rest of eternity thinking about the children she's never known.

FREDDIE: You are so sick in the head. (He’s addressing ANATOLY.) That’s why you didn’t want to tell us the rest. You’d have to admit to having children you abandoned.

ANATOLY: You don’t want to tell us the rest of your story.

FREDDIE: Don’t make this about me. I’m fucking talking to you.

ANATOLY: Svetlana kept pushing me to tell the rest of my story.

SVETLANA looks deadly.

FREDDIE: Don’t make this about her, you piece of shit. You love to make things about yourself until it stops being convenient. Own up for once in your life.

ANATOLY finally shuts up and nods. His head falls to his chest. He knows what he has done is inexcusable.

FLORENCE has nothing to say. She has an endless supply of apologies and regret, but it’s difficult when she doesn’t remember being in ANATOLY’s story. That’s not what happened in her own story, she’s pretty sure.

She suddenly doesn’t want to tell the rest. She’s scared of forgetting.

But she’s more scared of remembering, given what she just heard from ANATOLY’s story.

There is a stagnant quiet on the boat. SVETLANA is wielding her anger in silence and beauty. Abruptly, she turns to FLORENCE.

SVETLANA: Are we ready for part two of our fairytale?

FLORENCE can’t tell whether SVETLANA hates her after hearing ANATOLY’s story. 

FLORENCE: I’m trying to remember. I really can’t. Maybe there’s nothing more to my story. You said it was like a book? Well, since mine is a fairytale, maybe mine really does end at the closure.

SVETLANA: Try to remember?

FLORENCE is scared.

FLORENCE: I don’t want to. What if I’m awful? I am awful. I don’t want to know more about myself.

SVETLANA: Florence, darling, you aren’t awful. Please. I’d like to hear the rest.

FLORENCE: What if I tell it incorrectly?

SVETLANA: There is no way to tell your story incorrectly. Please. I need a distraction before I push someone off the raft.

SVETLANA is asking.

After everything, this is all FLORENCE can do for her.

So she picks up her fairytale at SVETLANA's request.

Chapter Text

Unlike Anatoly, Florence didn’t purposefully omit any part of her story.

She just couldn’t remember.

But she’ll try one more time. Svetlana asked her to.

Once upon a time …

Princess Florence and King Anatoly had fallen in love over one evening spent in the palace gardens together.

It was a typical fairytale.

And, like in all fairytales and fantasies, there was conflict. There was no evil witch or wicked giant to ruin Florence and Anatoly’s story.

There was only a former king.

Gregor Vassy of the fallen Violet Kingdom.

He’d been ill. He hadn’t had a choice when he was taken by King Anatoly. The young man was polite, but his father had been, too. Manners meant nothing; what mattered came from within. He didn’t want his kind, lovely daughter to be with the son of the person who had destroyed their kingdom. Maybe Florence didn’t remember how far the Scarlet Kingdom’s crimes stretched, but Gregor did. He recalled losing his wife and almost losing Florence. It was why he’d locked her in the tower of a thousand stories. He thought he’d raised her to never trust people from the outside (especially the people of the Scarlet Kingdom), but she’d been fooled by the son of the war criminal.

Gregor still remembered holding Florence when she was small. He’d sworn he’d protect her forever, which meant protecting her from King Anatoly. The man had a wife. Florence probably didn’t even know. The man had wooed her for a day — no, not even, just a few hours — and suddenly Florence was talking about marrying and never returning to her tower.

It was after midnight when Florence returned to her chamber. She was still flushed and giggly, but she seemed surprised to find her father waiting for her. He told her to get ready for bed. He’d read her a story. So she did and she climbed into bed, her eyes still sparkling from her evening with Anatoly.

Gregor offered her a pomegranate juice. Florence, finally realizing how thirsty she was, eagerly accepted the goblet and drained it.

It was only a few seconds before she collapsed back onto the bed, dropping the goblet. Gregor picked it up.

He wished Florence sweet dreams before he left the chamber.

The next day, the final chess match occurred. Freddie, who’d seen Florence and Anatoly dancing outside the night before, lost badly. Like, really badly. Like, he never wanted to show his face anywhere ever again.

He searched the crowds for Florence. He hadn’t seen her in the breakfast area that morning. Maybe she’d slept in, given how late she’d been out with Anatoly. But it would be unlike her to miss the match. After the crowds thinned and it was afternoon, Freddie was seriously concerned. He didn’t know where Florence was. Anatoly couldn’t find her either.

Despite their rivalry on the board, they both needed to find her. They set out to her chamber. There she was, fast asleep. When they tried and tried and tried to wake her, they were unsuccessful. She had a pulse and she was breathing, but nothing they did could rouse her.

“What did you do to her?” Freddie snarled, pinning Anatoly against the wall and readying himself for murder. Anatoly, however, looked horrified.

“Nothing! Nothing, I swear!”

“I saw you two.” Freddie felt the burning in his throat and in his heart. He wanted to break something. “Last night. I saw you. Don’t lie. What did you do?”

“I didn’t,” Anatoly swore again and his frightened eyes told Freddie he was telling the truth. Anatoly was annoying and he clearly had no problems with dancing with Florence when he had a wife, but Freddie believed him when he said he hadn’t hurt Florence. He released him. Anatoly immediately called the guards and asked for an immediate investigation.

They didn’t have to work for long. Gregor came forward.

He confessed that he’d given Florence a potion to plunge her into eternal sleep until an act of true love was performed. Anatoly was shocked, but he immediately kissed Florence’s cheek and held her hand and swore that he loved her.

Florence did not wake.

Gregor was not at all surprised. It’d been his express purpose to prove that Anatoly did not really love her. Having done so, Gregor prepared to wake Florence himself. He began to braid her beautiful hair as he often did, taking special care to not pull or make them too tight. He knew exactly how Florence liked her hair braided. He’d done it a hundred times before.

But Florence did not wake.

It was an alarm. He took her hand and squeezed it. He kissed her forehead. Distressed, he shook her shoulder and called out her name and pleaded with her to wake up. But she would not wake. The damage of the magic was final; Florence could not wake without an act of true love. Fathers did not hurt daughters they loved, so he couldn’t wake her. Men did not love women after only a few hours spent together, so Anatoly couldn’t wake her.

And since Florence had grown up locked in a very tall tower with no other contacts, she had no one to wake her.

Anatoly called for consultations with the most skilled apothecaries and curse-fighters, while Gregor begged the gods for forgiveness and asked them to save his little Florence. Experts crowded around the sleeping princess, trying different spells and potions and combinations of magic to bring her back. Nothing was effective. Nothing could wake her.

One week later, Queen Svetlana returned from a trip to the countryside. One of her advisors, Leonid, caught her up on everything.

She met Freddie out in the palace garden.

“You’re still here,” she signed. “I would have thought you’d be gone by now. You never stay for long.”

Freddie had been playing a game of chess against himself. It was going nowhere. Defeated, he swatted at the pieces, knocking them all over.

“I can’t go. Not until Florence has woken up. Did you hear…?”

“Leonid told me.” Svetlana’s hands trembled for a millisecond. She was pale. Still, she continued signing rapidly. “I hope she will be alright. Doesn’t surprise me Anatoly couldn’t wake her. I doubt he’d be able to wake me.”

“He probably couldn’t wake anything except for a game of chess.”

“Yes. Well. I knew that when I married him.” Svetlana had always carried her sadness with sophistication and grace. “So what shall we do about the sleeping princess?”

“I don’t know.” By this point, Freddie had already spent hours trying to concoct different potions and reading up on the creation of counter spells. The problem was that magic, if wielded incorrectly, could cause even greater harm.

There was nothing to help Florence. The guilt ate at him. He was the one that’d coaxed her out of the tower. He’d been the one that’d promised that the world outside was safe. He’d lied to her. She’d left and almost immediately she’d been cursed. And to think he’d been upset because he’d seen her dancing with Anatoly! She probably hadn’t realized how hurtful it’d been. He should’ve interrupted them anyway to give her the friendship bracelet he’d made. He’d carved a queen chess piece charm and put it on hers and he’d made one with a king for himself.

He’d been so excited to give it to her. She probably would’ve been so excited to put it on.

Freddie hurt.

He continued to search for ways to help Florence. A few promising leads led to dead ends. He traveled around asking everyone he could for help.

Somehow, a year passed. Experts from the furthest lands had been summoned to try to wake Princess Florence. No one could concoct anything to help her.

It was time for the hardest decision.

It would be most merciful to put the princess to death. That way, at least her soul would be free to rejoin the skies. She would be trapped in eternal slumber no longer. The evening before they’d be putting Florence to death, Freddie was once again in the large palace gardens, poring over notes he’d already read many times before and which had yielded no answers. He hadn’t slept in weeks and he was wild and desperate. He felt helpless. He felt powerless. He felt the anticipatory grief already settling in.

Svetlana joined him.

“Her poor father is torn to shreds.” She sat beside him. “He wanted to show her the cruelty of kings. He really thought he would be able to wake her.”

“He wanted more than anything to protect her.” Freddie stopped signing and dragged his hands over his face. His shoulders shook. It took a moment to regain his composure. “I should have told her to stay in the tower.”

“No.” Svetlana shook her head. “She would have died up there. You said she was sick and had no food or water. I’m sure the days she journeyed with you were some of the best of her life.”

Best of her short life.

He felt terrible.

“You should say goodbye,” Svetlana gently suggested. “I’ll go with you.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You should.”

Svetlana stopped signing and took his hand.

She was probably right. He knew he’d regret it forever if he didn’t say goodbye. It just felt so hard.

They went to Florence’s chamber. There she was, in a violet nightgown, deep in her sleep. Svetlana went to Florence’s other side and gently took her hand and squeezed it. Then she released it.

“I wish I could have known you,” she signed to Florence. “I’m sorry my husband did what he did. I’m sorry your father did what he did. I’m sorry this happened to you.”

And then it was Freddie’s turn.

He took Florence’s other hand. It felt warm. A memory stirred. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the friendship bracelets he’d weaved. He still carried them daily in hopes that Florence would wake up. He tied his own around his wrist. Then, with trembling fingers, he tied her bracelet around hers.

It felt like such a final act.

In a way, it was.

But Florence suddenly gripped his hand.

Freddie jumped a foot. Svetlana seemed equally taken aback, her hands flying over her mouth. Florence looked confused and startled, but she sat up at once.

Freddie embraced her. It was the best damn hug in all of the kingdoms. In all of history, actually. He heard sobs. They might’ve been his own. They might’ve been Florence’s. Maybe they were both crying.

Svetlana rushed towards the door, ecstatically signing to the staff that the princess had woken up at last.

This is the epilogue of the fairytale.

The excitement slowed down around the castle.

This was fine. Florence and Freddie, after all, had enough of adventures.

Gregor apologized to Florence. He apologized for cursing her and for locking her in the tower. He said he was the worst father in the land and that she could be with whomever she wanted to be and live wherever she wanted to live and do whatever she wanted to do. Her life was for her. Florence forgave him. He’d braided her hair, read her bedtime stories, and made the exhausting journey up the tower of a thousand stories enough times to know he really did love her. There was no question about it. He’d just been scared to see her hurt, and he was forgiven.

Anatoly apologized for not disclosing his marriage and for not loving her hard enough to wake her up. Florence shook his hand politely. A year-long sleep had knocked her out of her infatuation with the king. In her defense, she’d been very naive and inexperienced and had never had a romantic experience in her life. She was over that.

And she didn’t think he was evil. He was just stupid and selfish.

Maybe they could be friends one day.

Queen Svetlana and King Anatoly ended up separating. In fact, Anatoly decided ruling the kingdom wasn’t for him. He was a bit awkward and he didn’t much like crowds and he just wanted to play chess.

He asked if Svetlana wanted to rule by herself. She did.

King Anatoly became just Anatoly. He was happier that way. When the championship happened again, Freddie spectacularly beat him and took the title back. 

And then they had a night in the garden together.

Shh.

As for Florence… she ended up courting the queen. She and her father moved to a small cottage in the Scarlet Kingdom. Florence visited Freddie and Queen Svetlana daily. She devoted her time to learning the kingdom’s sign language. Teatime and long conversations about books with Svetlana eventually lead to holding hands and kissing in the gardens. Eventually they married and became the two queens of the land. The Scarlet Kingdom was renamed the Queendom of Rainbows in honor of the union of the two kingdoms, and, of course, in honor of the two fair queens themselves.

There is no true happily ever after. Happiness is not absolute. However, there is life and it can be good. Florence was about as happy as she could be for the rest of her life, which was more than she’d asked for. She had a best friend in Freddie and a beautiful wife in Queen Svetlana.

The two queens ushered in a new age of of peace and prosperity.

And Anatoly and Freddie kept playing chess. They had more nights in the garden.

This story ended in a relationship between FLORENCE and SVETLANA. SVETLANA can hardly believe it. Hearing the second half of FLORENCE’s story gives her hope. She knows she shouldn’t dare. It’s just one story. There must be many more where ANATOLY and FLORENCE wind up together. It’s been a theme across the four stories.

But things can change. Routines can break. FLORENCE didn’t forget about SVETLANA in her story. She just hadn't been awake. No wonder she couldn't remember anything before.

FLORENCE: I remembered. (She’s startled.) I started telling the rest, and I guess it came to me.

SVETLANA: You loved me? We got married and ruled together?

FLORENCE: Yes. (She looks at SVETLANA differently now. She wants so badly to embrace her.) I don’t know how I forgot.

ANATOLY: You were cursed. You weren’t awake. How would you have remembered?

FLORENCE: I don’t know. But I remember now.

FREDDIE: Florence.

He is stunned, staring at his wrist. The friendship bracelet from FLORENCE’s story is now neatly tied on his wrist. FLORENCE’s wrist has the other bracelet. She carefully touches the little queen charm hanging from it. The woodwork is beautiful. FREDDIE did a wonderful job.

FLORENCE tries not to cry. She fails.

SVETLANA: It’s real!

FLORENCE: Oh. Oh.

ANATOLY: How?

FREDDIE: It’s real!

FLORENCE: I know it is. I’ve been telling you!

SVETLANA: So that means!

She doesn’t finish her sentence, but the way she’s looking at FLORENCE explains what she’s thinking. Her marriage with FLORENCE was real.

It means the children from ANATOLY's story could be real, too.

FREDDIE: So your story is the real one? The one where I was a hero and helped you?

He wants so badly to believe this.

FLORENCE: You didn’t just help me. You saved me. I think… I think all the stories might be real.

SVETLANA: I think it’s one story, actually. One story, four versions. We all tell a different version.

ANATOLY: But how?

He’s still struggling to wrap his head around the idea.

FREDDIE: Stop trying to find the logic. We’re trapped here. There’s no logic to this.

ANATOLY frowns at FREDDIE. Then he remembers the end of FLORENCE’s story again.

ANATOLY: …What the hell were Freddie and I doing in the gardens?

FLORENCE’s face flushes a bit. She busies herself with her bracelet.

FLORENCE: Oh… I don’t know. Playing chess, I suppose.

ANATOLY and FREDDIE stare at each other.

They quickly look apart.

There are other things to worry about. Surely they really were playing chess in the gardens. It’s all they know how to do.

ANATOLY (turning to FREDDIE again): Well. It’s your turn.

The mood sours. FLORENCE’s story had a relatively happy ending. This is not true of all stories.

FREDDIE: No. There’s nothing more to tell. Nothing more to my story.

ANATOLY: That can’t be true. Florence thought there was nothing more to her story. There was.

FREDDIE: You remember how I stood up for you when you didn’t want to tell the rest of your story and admit to us that you had kids? Remember that? Try standing up for me, asshole.

The discomfort is heavy. The four CHARACTERS sit in disarray. Neither FREDDIE nor ANATOLY budge.

SVETLANA wraps her arms around herself.

SVETLANA: If we’re already varying from our usual cycle, maybe I could go next. I won’t be last. For once.

FREDDIE: You will. (A beat. He realizes this may sound unkind.) No, I didn’t mean it in the sense that you’re always last. I just meant you’re still last, because I have nothing more to tell. We aren’t coming back to me. We’re just skipping me.

SVETLANA: Oh. I see.

ANATOLY (exasperated): That’s ridiculous. We already established that a story doesn’t end when the book ends. There has to be more.

FREDDIE: Do you ever shut the fuck up?

SVETLANA: Tolya, don’t push… I can go next. It’s okay.

FLORENCE: I like your story, Sveta. I would listen to you tell it a thousand times. (She giggles, despite everything, still playing with the charm on her friendship bracelet. She’s feeling warm from her story.) I have listened to you tell it a thousand times. I’m eager to hear the rest of it.

SVETLANA: Thank you. Okay. Well. Let’s go back through the wormhole, to universes more distant than we can imagine…

Chapter Text

Svetlana’s story was never really about chess.

It didn’t need to be. Her story couldn’t be contained in sixty-four squares. The universes were way too big for that.

Anatoly was now the Intergalactic Chess Champion. If he didn’t answer Svetlana’s calls about taxes before, he especially didn’t now. Maybe he thought the money he’d won would be enough to keep him out of jail. The idiot probably didn’t realize his winnings would be taxed, too, and then he and Svetlana would both end up in jail anyway. It was a headache. A lot of things were causing her headaches these days. Anatoly, Anatoly, Anatoly again, Florence…

Florence…

She kept away from Florence. She didn’t trust herself to be kind. She had so many things she wanted to say about Anatoly, but if he made Florence happy, then that was that.

Florence had stopped trying to speak to her, but Svetlana still noticed her glancing over every so often, a flicker of sadness in a usually-composed expression.

Svetlana missed her. It was why she had to stay away.

So she did. She stayed away. She continued working to repair the ship and started preliminary designs for a new one.

Florence continued working on her secret projects.

So… there wasn’t much more to Svetlana’s story. She realizes how silly she’d been to propose that they all continue their stories. There really wasn’t more to tell. The last thing she recalled before being pulled into stalemate was a conversation with Florence.

It’d been a particularly painful one. They’d both been heading out of the office for the day.

Svetlana was at the door. Florence called her name.

“Svetlana.”

Florence’s face was icy from the amount of strain it took to mask her emotions.

“I wanted to tell you something. I found out about you and Anatoly.” Her expression became even icier. “I had no idea.”

Svetlana felt a bitter, bitter, bitter satisfaction. Acrimony and decay tasted like honey today. A part of her, deep down, had been waiting for Florence to realize. That was a terrible thing to want.

“I thought you were happy.” Svetlana stood at the door, but she stepped into the office again. “He could play chess at your level. You always got so excited when you talked about him.”

“I was. Then, yesterday, I found out he divorced you.” Florence couldn’t keep a mask for long. She sharply looked down at her desk, toying with a little chess piece in her hands. “I didn’t know why you were suddenly so upset with me. I thought we were friends. But I realize now. I just wish you’d told me. I wish he’d told me.” Her voice cracked. “I feel awful. No wonder you hated me. I would hate me, too.”

And all at once, Svetlana was the one feeling awful.

She should have disclosed her jealousy from the start. She should have talked to Florence instead of leaving her confused as to the reasoning behind their fading friendship. She should have communicated. Anatoly had never communicated with her and now she’d gone and done the same thing to Florence.

To make matters worse, Svetlana had wanted something other than friendship.

She'd wanted too much.

“It’s too late,” Svetlana said.

It really wasn’t. She didn’t know why she said that. She’d had a rough day. She wanted to fix her friendship with Florence. She was just tired. As soon as the words left Svetlana's mouth, tears filled Florence’s eyes.

She was the one who ran away this time.

She pushed past Svetlana and out the door and far beyond anywhere Svetlana could see.

She, hollow, watched after Florence.

She didn’t know whether to follow her or leave her. There was always tomorrow. She and Florence could sort things out tomorr

INTERRUPTION.

A CHARACTER has interrupted SVETLANA’S story.

SVETLANA, do you accept the interruption? You will not be able to return to your story in this round.

...I do.

The four CHARACTERS look around. FLORENCE adjusts her sitting position and tucks her legs beneath her. Her eyes land on SVETLANA’s.

The raft does not destabilize. It never does.

FLORENCE: I’m sorry. I had to stop your story.

SVETLANA: It’s okay.

It is difficult to tell whether SVETLANA is actually okay with this. The running theme has been that her story was never about her. It was always about someone else.

FLORENCE is really driving this in by stopping SVETLANA's story.

But it is very possible that SVETLANA would let FLORENCE do anything.

FLORENCE: Can I finish your story? I’m sorry, Sveta. I know how it sounds. I know how it looks. I’m really sorry. But can I finish telling your story?

There is a flicker of something in SVETLANA’s face. It passes much too quickly for us to get a good look. It could have been a look of betrayal, a look of relief, hurt, pain, acceptance, or any given mixture.

There are several beats.

SVETLANA: Can you? Do you know how my story ends?

FLORENCE: Yes. I do. I remember now.

SVETLANA: You remember?

FREDDIE: Hold up. What’s going on?

ANATOLY: Florence?

FLORENCE: Please give me a chance. Sveta, if you let me, I’d like to finish your story.

FREDDIE: Is that allowed?

ANATOLY: Can one person tell another’s story?

SVETLANA is not deliberating whether she will allow FLORENCE to take over her story. She’s wondering where the sudden shift came from, what changed in FLORENCE, and what on Rouge she meant by saying she remembered SVETLANA’s story.

SVETLANA nods.

SVETLANA: Of course. I’ll give you my story. Florence, it’s yours to take. (She hesitates. She has a request.) Could you... make it happy? For me?

FLORENCE: I wish more than anything that I could do that for you. I'm sorry, Sveta. It doesn't end well. 

SVETLANA closes her eyes. She accepts this. She already knew this.

She was a fool to think FLORENCE could make a happy story for her. 

SVETLANA: It's okay. (She opens her eyes. She braces for the rest.) Tell my story. Make it the best tragedy.

Chapter Text

Svetlana’s story was always about other people and never about herself.

Florence realizes just how shitty it is to take over someone else’s story.

But this is important.

It picks up where Svetlana stopped speaking. 

“It’s too late,” Svetlana said.

Florence pushed past Svetlana.

The guilt was too much. The hurt was too much. She’d fallen in love with Anatoly, and the fact that neither Anatoly nor Svetlana had told her about their past was too much. All of it was too much. 

Florence should have done better. Being on a fucking spaceship millions of light-years away from the world you knew took its toll. Freddie had gone. Finding out the truth about Anatoly had left her empty. And now Svetlana was saying it was too late to fix things and be friends again.

It was the end of the world.

And the thing was that Florence knew she was blowing things out of proportion. She always had. She'd never been able to accept things calmly. Everything was always a glass shard below her feet or a splinter in her wrist. She felt too strongly. This was a fault within her. 

She didn't want to make it everyone else's problem, but she was going to make it everyone else's problem.

In times of distress, she turned to what she understood. She turned to what was familiar. She turned towards science.

Science was a beautiful thing.

It was a frightening thing.

Science was uncontrollable.

Somehow, Florence had reined it in and wielded it. Take two singularities within the same universe, for instance. Imagine the singularities like hands. Imagine them reaching for each other. When they finally met, when the hands finally found each other, a wormhole was born.

It was easy to conceptualize. It was easy to explain. Others agreed. It was easy to do. No one else agreed. It was why the Trumper-Vassy wormhole had taken the worlds by a storm.

And a storm could have so much power.

Gravitational waves were a storm. They warped the universe. Think of the calm ocean our four characters found themselves in. The sea was always calm. There was never a storm, never a wave, so a calm sea was the standard. That was how spacetime tended to behave around Earth, Rouge, and the many planets of the Milky Way.

Calmly. Reliably.

Then Florence, anything but calm and reliable, came along. She mastered gravitational waves. She could create a storm in spacetime. She could warp the universe. She could make two stars kiss. She could feed a planet to a ravenous black hole.

She could reach into hyperspace using a wave.

She could make relativistic laws and quantum laws shake hands.

So when she ran, she ran to the supercomputer in her pod. She opened up a dozen programs that merited much caution. A dozens warnings appeared on her screen. She knew she was impulsive. She knew she never acted rationally when she was emotional.

She didn’t care.

She’d cracked time-travel. Theories of quantum gravity were all it took. If she could go back, just enough to never meet Anatoly, just enough to choose her friendship with Svetlana over Anatoly, maybe everything would be alright. Maybe Svetlana wouldn’t think it was too late. Maybe everything would be different.

As she fiddled with her different programs, she thought back to a conversation she’d had with Svetlana. This was before Freddie had left and before everything had gone downhill.

“Time is the fourth dimension,” Florence was explaining over lunch. It wasn’t an unusual conversation to have on the ship. Everyone onboard was a scientist.

“I work in three dimensions!” Svetlana engineered spaceships! She didn’t understand Florence’s brand of sciences! Florence, however, grinned.

“I’m playing chess with Freddie tonight. At twenty, we’ll meet in the greenspace. Picture it in three dimensions.”

So Svetlana did. She could touch the grass beneath her. She could stretch her legs before her. A simulated breeze ran over her face.

It was in three dimensions.

She looked at Florence.

“Take it one step further,” Florence pressed. “When are you there? When am I there, when is Freddie? Not at nineteen; I’ll be finishing dinner and showering. Not at twenty-one; that’s bedtime for me. So that’s where the time dimension comes in. Three spatial dimensions, one time dimension. A time dimension is a little different, though. We can’t travel through time the way we can freely move through our three spatial dimensions.”

“Time moves one way.” Svetlana thought about it. "Not just one way. One direction." She’d taken enough physics to know basic relativistic laws. Florence nodded.

“Right. When you look at a star, you look into the past.”

“The star’s light is traveling through three spatial dimensions and one time dimension." It was all coming back to Svetlana. Florence was right. She hadn’t doubted her. She just hadn’t understood.

“There we go.” Florence popped the lid off a soda can. “The light is traveling through time. That’s why we see a star’s light after it emits that light.”

Svetlana already knew that. She just hadn’t thought of it like that before. She had smiled at Florence.

Florence had smiled back.

The memory replayed and replayed in Florence’s head now.

It replayed so vividly that she wanted to return to it. She wanted to go back to that moment and tell Svetlana how much she meant to her. She wanted to tell Svetlana that she was worth the universe and that maybe they could get dinner together the following night. She wanted to ask Svetlana if she'd really meant it when she'd said she was pretty. She wanted to tell Svetlana that she had the prettiest eyes out of anyone she'd ever known.

She never wanted to meet Anatoly. She didn't want to talk to him. She didn't want to see him. He was nothing. 

Svetlana was everything. In that moment, Svetlana was Florence's only thought. 

She'd do anything for Svetlana.

She'd crack the universe open for Svetlana.

She'd reach through time for Svetlana.

Florence ran the program to initiate a reversal. She had proved she could control the three dimensions; she would control the fourth. Time would no longer hold her prisoner.

Time was not her friend.

The computer asked if she wanted to initiate. She did.

It asked her which story she wanted to go back in.

...That question was unexpected.

She stared. A hundred titles popped up. That was only what could fit on the screen. Every second, the scrollbar became infinitely smaller as more and more stories appeared. She caught some of the titles. None of them made any sense.

Afterimages. Beginning the Game All Over Again. board of bishops. by lightning into the abyss. Dreams Unwind. ez a játszma véget nem ér. Half-Remembered Figure from a Past so Remote. i still believe. i wish i had it in me (not to care). Remain in Light. rodina. Starting From Scratch. the future, in a dream last night. the name of the game. the trouble is the girl is me. Vortex. Where The Heart Is. who am i and who are you and who are we. You Fool, it's Now or Never.

Florence didn’t know what to do.

She hit enter without selecting a story.

That was a mistake.

A pretty major mistake, and major was a word scarcely used when you'd conquered most of the known universe.

The computer froze for a moment. These days, they never froze. They could handle calculations and programs of extreme power. The fact that she managed to briefly freeze it made her stomach drop.

Then the screen went black.

ERROR. ERROR. ERROR.

TOO MANY STORIES SELECTED.

ENTERING RECOVERY MODE.

The world went black.

No, it didn't go black.

It went away.

RESTARTING…

STORIES: 0

SEARCHING FOR STORIES…

NO STORIES FOUND.

EMERGENCY PROCEDURE INITIATED.

SELECTING FOUR (4) STORIES FROM TEMPLATES.

1. CHESS (LONDON)

2. FAIRYTALE

3. CHESS (NEW YORK)

4. CURRENT STORY (SPACE EXPLORATION)

REBUILDING DATABASE…

REBUILDING CHARACTERS…

THIS WILL TAKE A VERY LONG TIME.

SEND FOUR (4) REBUILT CHARACTERS TO SAFE HAVEN.

SAFE HAVEN “STALEMATE” READY TO RECEIVE FOUR (4) CHARACTERS?

…

…

…

CONFIRMED.

Characters received.

Rules established.

THE RULES.

1. There are four characters.

2. Each character must tell their story.

3. When the four characters have told their stories, they will vote.

4. Each character must vote for a story. They may vote for their own story.

5. There must be a unanimous vote for one story.

THERE IS ONLY ONE STORY. THERE IS ONLY ONE STORY. THERE IS ONLY ONE STORY. THERE IS ONLY ONE STORY. THERE IS ONLY ONE STORY. THERE IS ONLY ONE STORY. THERE IS ONLY ONE STORY. THERE IS ONLY ONE STORY. THERE IS ONLY ONE STORY. THERE IS ONLY ONE STORY. THERE IS ONLY ONE STORY. THERE IS ONLY ONE STORY.

RECOVERING STORIES.

THERE ARE NOW 19 STORIES. THERE ARE NOW 940 STORIES. THERE ARE NOW 497452847284723 STORIES. THERE ARE NOW 109384920384293840938490238429842842948298234982908 STORIES. THERE ARE NOW ∞ STORIES.

...STORIES RESTORED.

WAITING FOR FOUR (4) CHARACTERS IN SAFE HAVEN “STALEMATE” TO REACH CONCLUSION.

WAITING FOR FOUR (4) CHARACTERS IN SAFE HAVEN “STALEMATE” TO REACH CONCLUSION.

WAITING FOR FOUR (4) CHARACTERS IN SAFE HAVEN “STALEMATE” TO REACH CONCLUSION.

WAITING FOR FOUR (4) CHARACTERS IN SAFE HAVEN “STALEMATE” TO REACH CONCLUSION.

WAITING FOR FOUR (4) CHARACTERS IN SAFE HAVEN “STALEMATE” TO REACH CONCLUSION.

...

...

...

...

Still waiting...

FLORENCE throws her hands over her mouth. She feels dazed. 

She almost destroyed everything.

She's responsible for all this.

And all because she's so stupid and emotional.

The three CHARACTERS stare at FLORENCE. 

She holds a hand over her chest.

FLORENCE: ...I did this. I put us here. I only remembered when Sveta was telling the second part of her story. I—

FREDDIE: Florence. What the hell?

All CHARACTERS are having trouble with their words. This is beyond the scope of their understanding. They've become well-accustomed to the stagnant routine, but this blows the world up in their faces. Literally.

ANATOLY: Let’s try to be nice. This is a lot to take in. But let’s try to be nice. (He's really struggling to be a good leader. He doesn't know what to do.) Florence, are you sure—?

FREDDIE: Don’t tone police me. Don't tell me to be nice. (He turns back to FLORENCE.) What the actual hell? You bitched at me for the shit I said to the press for years, then you go and do something batshit insane?

He’s half-pissed, half in awe.

FLORENCE slinks into herself. She rubs the charm on her friendship bracelet. She's worried she'll get thrown overboard, despite the fact that none of them can really die from being thrown overboard.

She's scared the three CHARACTERS will turn their backs on her for what she's done.

FLORENCE: Freddie. I’m sorry. All of you. I’m so sorry.

SVETLANA: Florence…

Is it bad that SVETLANA is flattered FLORENCE almost destroyed the worlds for her? She tries to feel bad. She can’t. She’d been convinced FLORENCE didn't care about her. Now she knows it's the opposite. FLORENCE did all this for her.

SVETLANA can’t be upset. She thought her story was a tragedy. It still is, because they're still trapped here, but now she has the other side of her own story.

She has FLORENCE's side.

ANATOLY: Florence. Is that really what happened?

FLORENCE: Yes. I told you. I really didn’t remember until now. I’m sorry.

ANATOLY is still struggling with the idea that all four stories might be real. He blinks a few times, but he resorts to the logic he can understand.

ANATOLY: Even if you really trapped us here, you’re not keeping us here. Are you? Who’s spoiling the vote?

FLORENCE: No. I’m not spoiling the vote. I’ve been voting for Freddie’s story. All of us agreed to that.

FREDDIE: Right.

SVETLANA: I’ve also been voting for Freddie’s story.

ANATOLY: So have I. Who’s lying?

SVETLANA: Don’t word it like that, Tolya.

ANATOLY: I will word it like that. Someone is lying.

SVETLANA: Maybe… maybe there is a mistake. Maybe something is wrong.

ANATOLY: There is no mistake. The votes are conclusive. Someone is not voting for Freddie’s story. Who?

He looks around. The three CHARACTERS stare back.

ANATOLY: We’ve reached the end. We’re past the end. So who’s keeping us here? Which one of you? Svetlana? Florence? Freddie?

FLORENCE: If it was over, we wouldn’t still be telling this story.

SVETLANA: If it was over, we wouldn’t be here now.

ANATOLY: Someone isn’t voting for Freddie's story. (He looks at FREDDIE.) Is it you?

FREDDIE: Stop pointing fingers, commie bastard. Try looking inward.

ANATOLY: I’ve been voting for your story even though I lost the championship. Even though your story is unfamiliar to me. I’ve voted for your story every time.

FREDDIE: Oh, boohoo. You lost the championship. Boo-fucking-hoo. You want some yogurt to cheer you up?

FLORENCE: Freddie.

FREDDIE: Leave me alone. Fuck. Restart everything again, I guess.

SVETLANA: We haven’t heard the second part of—

FREDDIE: There is no goddamn second part! My story’s over! What part of that don’t you all understand?

ANATOLY: If you would retell the end, maybe we’d understand a little better—

FREDDIE: Fuck you.

Despite his aggression, FREDDIE is cornered. He is extremely pale. He is like a trapped animal ready to lash out. SVETLANA and FLORENCE glance at each other. 

ANATOLY: We all told the second parts of our stories. All of us. You owe us.

FREDDIE: I don’t owe you shit. I can’t owe you shit.

FLORENCE: Freddie.

She reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder. She hurts for him. She hates seeing him in pain. In her story, he saved her. In his story—

FREDDIE (pulling away) : Don’t touch me. I don’t want comfort.

SVETLANA: Freddie. Please?

FREDDIE: Why do you people want me to retell the worst day of my life so bad? Do you know how much that fucking sucks? No, because that one — (he gestures towards ANATOLY) — has a family to go back to. That one — (he gestures towards FLORENCE) — got her perfect fairytale happily ever after. And you — (he points at SVETLANA) — found out your crush actually did like you. She blew up all of our stories for you. And what about me?

ANATOLY: What about you?

SVETLANA (gently) : What about you?

FLORENCE (afraid) : What about you?

FREDDIE: Fine. (He glares. He's resolved. He's crushed.) Since you all want to know so bad... fine. 

Chapter Text

Freddie wasn’t lying. There is very little to tell.

For context, think back to the beginning.

Freddie’s story was established as being a story about self-hatred.

It is between dreaming and waking. It is between falling and hitting the ground. It is between jumping and hitting the ground.

More specifically, it’s jumping from a building and realizing you’ll hit the ground.

Endgame would be hitting the ground.

Resignation would have been never jumping.

This is stalemate — it’s between the two.

It's the act of falling.

Freddie won the championship.

He’d reached the top. He’d taken his victory. He was the best. He’d trekked to the top of the world and there was no higher place for him to ascend to. This was it. This was all he’d worked towards. He couldn’t go any higher.

He had nothing more to do.

He had nothing more to live for.

When you reach the point Freddie reached, you do the things you swore you’d never do. It’s because you’re desperate and it’s because you want to find a reason to live and you think that maybe opening up a box you’d long buried will give you a reason to live, and all you need is one reason.

He had three potential reasons. Maybe. Maybe. 

All it took was three phone calls.

His first was to Anatoly.

Yes, to Anatoly fucking Sergievsky. Former enemy, current… whatever. It was harder to hate someone you’d beat. He’d hated Anatoly for being champion. Now Anatoly wasn’t a champion. He was just a man. He was just pathetic. He was back in Russia, back with his wife, and, most importantly, away from Florence.

Away from Freddie.

Anatoly answered on the third ring.

“Did you throw the match?” No time for formalities. Freddie had to ask what he didn’t want to ask. “Did you throw the fucking match? Don’t lie to me.”

It was what he’d been wondering. Anatoly had been the champion for several years for a reason. He was good. He was solid. And Freddie hadn’t wanted to admit it, but there was a possibility Anatoly could be just as good as him. Or maybe even…

“Freddie.” Anatoly sounded shocked. Freddie could picture him holding onto the phone, probably hunched over a coffee table. Or maybe he was standing. Wherever he’d be, he’d probably be gripping the phone the way he’d gripped each chess piece during the deciding match.

Gripping it for life.

“I asked you a question,” Freddie snapped. He swore he wasn't going to beg, but he already was begging for an answer. “Did you throw the match? Tell me.”

That was all it took. Anatoly’s silence said everything. Before Anatoly could come up with an answer, Freddie slammed the receiver down. He didn’t want to chit-chat. All he’d wanted was an answer, and now he had it.

One lifeline down.

His next call was to Florence.

Florence wouldn’t let him down one last time. It was what he was telling himself. Florence had loved him, and though their last conversation had resulted in her walking out on him, telling him he was gone, she wouldn’t abandon him agin. Not when he was at his lowest. Not when she realized how much he needed her. Not when she finally saw him. She’d come crawling back. She had to. She had no one either. It was a toxic sort of relationship, something Freddie was fully cognizant of, but it was the poison they were familiar with. He and Florence, they’d climbed to the top together, drinking the same toxin and feeding each other venom. 

So his next call was to Florence.

Or, rather, his next call was to no one.

He clung to the telephone and prepared to call her. It was when he realized he needed her number. He didn’t have it. He didn’t know where she was. Budapest? Had she stayed in Budapest? She’d been desperate to go. He wondered if she’d found it as transformative as she’d expected. She’d talked about it nonstop. He’d been looking forward to walking around the streets she’d talked about growing up in. What had that one street been called? Prodgsy Street?

Didn't matter. They never gotten around to doing that. She’d walked around with Anatoly instead.

He picked the shards out of his heart. They cut his hands.

Maybe she had come back to America. She could be next door. He had no way of knowing. She could be anywhere.

But he had no way to reach her. And as the dial tone buzzed in his hand, Freddie set the receiver down again. He had no way to reach her. It was the phone call he didn’t make that almost hurt the most. Maybe if he could get her on the phone everything would’ve been alright. Maybe. Maybe. But he couldn’t connect to her.

Second lifeline gone.

Everything felt too real. Everything felt too frightening.

He made the last call on a pay phone.

It was a pay phone by a tall building. He hated heights. He didn’t want to look.

He wished he didn’t know the number. He wished it didn’t haunt every dream. The cruelest thing Florence could do was leave him no way to contact her.

That was not the cruelest thing his mother could do.

She answered.

She said one word. One word was all it took. The word he’d feared for years. And she slammed the phone down.

The dial tone rang in Freddie’s ear.

Third lifeline had never been there.

He stood in the phone booth.

Numbly, he hung the phone up.

Then he went up the tall building.

He was scared of heights. Maybe a part of him had known how his story would end all along.

Up, up, up he went. He stepped out of the elevator when he couldn't go any higher. The railing was low. It wouldn’t take much.

He looked down.

A long, long way to fall.

He wanted to fall.

He’d never wanted anything more.

So he jumped.

There is no conclusion to Freddie’s story. He was the one spoiling the vote all along. He was afraid of reaching a conclusion. He was afraid of returning to his world and hitting the ground. Because somewhere in between jumping and landing, he realized he wanted to live.

It'd been quicker than a blink.

Then he'd landed in stalemate. The others had decided to vote for his story. They thought it was the best story out of the four. Freddie was too ashamed to speak up and urge them to vote differently. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t expose them, the very people who’d driven him to jump, to his mangled heart. He couldn’t let them know they’d gotten to him.

There is no second part to Freddie’s story.

He was falling and that was it.

While he fell, time seemed to slow down. Freddie hated heights. He was terrified of them. Of course he’d end his life this way; it was one last dagger to his own heart, one last bitter act of self-harm, one last fuck you to himself. It was a story about self-hatred.

If he hurt himself worst of all, everyone else’s betrayals would hurt less.

Freddie was falling forever.

He stops talking. There’s nothing more to tell, no script to follow. His story has ended.

ANATOLY and SVETLANA, each sitting to one side of him, take his hands. He looks down at his lap. His shoulders quiver. FLORENCE is trying to keep her tears as silent as she can, but the guilt doesn’t stop.

She left FREDDIE. She remembers leaving him. She remembers knowing he wasn’t in a good spot.

She remembers knowing that he would inevitably kill himself.

She remembers walking away anyway. She made the conscious decision to leave. She knew she was signing FREDDIE’s death sentence by doing so.

She also knew she’d had to do it.

Staying would have killed her.

No one talks. No one has anything to say. ANATOLY and SVETLANA don’t release FREDDIE’s hands and FLORENCE feels too guilty to even reach out.

FLORENCE: Freddie. I’m so sorry.

FREDDIE: No. Don’t be. I chose to jump.

FLORENCE: No, but I — I’m sorry. I can’t say how sorry I am. I wish I’d been there.

FREDDIE: You were there. So many times. (He swallows. It’s painful.) So, so many times. You deserved to finally leave. I was awful to you. (He turns to ANATOLY.) And to you. (He turns to SVETLANA.) And I didn’t even get to meet you. I wish I had. I saw you at the arena.

ANATOLY: I’m sorry, Freddie.

SVETLANA: I shouldn’t have made you share. I didn’t realize—

FREDDIE: No, I had to. (He shakes his head.) I feel better now. Somehow. I’m sorry. I’ve been fucking with the vote the whole time. We all agreed to vote for my story. I was too scared to tell you all. I’ve been keeping us here.

He waits for the other CHARACTERS to yell at him, to throw him overboard, to hurt him. No one does so. No one cares about that anymore.

FREDDIE: It felt like shit, having to sit here and tell the worst story over and over. I hated telling my story. I had to cut it off at winning the championship.

SVETLANA: It’s not a happy story to tell. I’m sorry you had to repeat the worst day of your life so many times.

FREDDIE: Thank you. (He takes a deep breath. It comes a little easier.) I’m sorry I kept us here. I mean it. I really am sorry.

SVETLANA: Any of us would have done that. You were scared. It’s okay.

ANATOLY: It’s okay.

FLORENCE: It’s okay.

FREDDIE: Well. Thank you for hearing me. Thank you for being here.

SVETLANA: We’ll stay with—

It’s time to vote.

Chapter Text

IT'S TIME TO VOTE.

ANATOLY: No. We’re not ready.

SVETLANA: I don’t think we have a choice.

ANATOLY: We haven’t decided what we’re doing.

FREDDIE: Time’s up.

ANATOLY: We can get it right this time. We can vote together.

He looks around at the rest of the CHARACTERS. He’s never felt closer to anyone. He finds himself wanting to stay with them a little longer.

He never thought he'd say that. 

FLORENCE: We can’t vote for Freddie’s story. We have to vote for someone else’s story. Right now.

ANATOLY: Because if we vote for Freddie’s story…

FREDDIE: I chose to jump. I chose to end my life. Whichever story we go with, I’m dead. It's fine. You all deserve to be free. I'm sorry I kept you here. Pick whichever story you want. I won't ruin it this time. 

SVETLANA: I don’t know. You jumped in one story. You didn’t in the others.

ANATOLY: We have to vote. Time’s up. What are we doing?

The climax is upon them. The CHARACTERS have had nothing but endless time and now they’re pressed for it. However, the course of action is obvious to THREE of the characters. They gather the strength to commit themselves and to say goodbye to their own stories.

ANATOLY is the only one that’s still scrambling for a solution.

FLORENCE turns to ANATOLY.

FLORENCE: We have to vote for your story.

SVETLANA: We have to.

ANATOLY: What? For mine?

He is stunned. He expected FLORENCE to advocate for her own story or SVETLANA’s. However, SVETLANA and FREDDIE seem to be in concurrence.

FREDDIE: We have to.

ANATOLY is having trouble understanding their logic. It’s FREDDIE who snaps him out of it.

FREDDIE: Your kids. You forgot them once. You can’t forget them again. Do the right thing. Face them. Don't be a coward. You were brave in my story. I know you're capable of it. 

FLORENCE: They don’t exist in my story. They didn’t exist in Sveta’s. We have to choose your story.

SVETLANA: We have to.

FREDDIE: We have to.

ANATOLY: …We have to.

FREDDIE nods. He is terrified. He also knows it's time to leave.

FLORENCE looks at him. Her eyes could destroy the world. She did destroy the worlds, plural, once.

She also restored them.

FLORENCE: We won’t let you go, Freddie. We promise. We won’t lose you.

ANATOLY: We promise.

SVETLANA: We promise.

FREDDIE: I’m scared. I—

TIME’S UP.

CAST YOUR VOTE.

VOTE:

ANATOLY’S STORY: 4

FLORENCE’S STORY: 0

FREDDIE’S STORY: 0

SVETLANA’S STORY: 0

CONCLUSIVE.

SUCCESS.

SAFE HAVEN "STALEMATE" OK TO RELEASE FOUR (4) CHARACTERS?

…

…

…

CONFIRMED.

A giant wave appears from nowhere.

It tips the raft over and pulls the four CHARACTERS into the depths of the sea.

Before they’re submerged, they manage to take each other’s hands.

They promised FREDDIE they wouldn’t let him go.

So they don’t.

Chapter Text

The four of them sit at a pub. It’s a muggy summer night, their tab is quite high, the pub is sure to close soon, but it’s a perfect evening. A relief of a breeze sneaks past them, blowing away at the sweat on the back of Svetlana’s neck and the heat in Freddie’s cheeks.

Svetlana finishes her fruity cocktail. It tastes rather sweet. She sets her hand down and links it with Florence’s, who grins and turns to her and kisses her cheek.

“One too many for you?” Florence teases, because Svetlana literally had one cocktail. Svetlana shrugs, pulling her hair to one side and scooting her chair closer to Florence’s.

“Maybe. I’m warm. Maybe you make me warm.”

“You make me warm.”

This time, Svetlana kisses Florence’s cheek.

Across the table, Anatoly and Freddie are not holding hands. They had been, but the summer heat had made their hands hot and sweaty. They are now holding their ice-cold drinks in hopes of cooling down.

“Reminds me of old times,” Anatoly comments, glancing over at Freddie. Freddie glares.

“Shut it, commie bastard, before we get stuck there again.”

Anatoly smirks, but he shuts it.

They’d been thrown into Anatoly’s story years ago. When they’d returned, they regained their memories of their lives in Anatoly’s story. They regained memories of all of the stories, actually, and many others. The bitter feelings between them all hadn’t completely washed away, but they acknowledged that they couldn’t ignore what had happened. They resolved to make amends.

The Soviet Union had fallen. Anatoly and Svetlana, freshly divorced, moved to England with Milo and Anna. It took a ridiculous amount of coaxing from Anatoly, Svetlana, and Florence to get Freddie to join them in London, but he finally did. The American traded stars and stripes for... whatever the fuck England’s flag was. He still didn’t know. He didn’t care.

Svetlana and Florence, bright with memories of their time in fairytales and space, moved in together at once. Their relationship flourished with ease. They talked through Florence’s stint with Anatoly during the defection year, Florence apologized, and Svetlana forgave.

For Freddie and Anatoly, it was harder. There were stories in which they really did hate each other, but they’d also experienced stories in which they’d learn to overcome it. They talked and talked and talked.

One day, they kissed.

Turns out that was what they'd been doing in the gardens of Florence's fairytale.

Everything was okay. 

It was okay because of Milo and Anna.

They thought their parents were insane whenever they started talking about fairytales and spaceships and apocalypses. They only remembered the story they were in, and it was fine. That was enough. They were enough. It took therapy and time for Milo to mend their relationship with Anatoly, but, with care, it happened. Milo got to know Florence and forgave her for running off with their father. Holidays spent in the family of six meant everyone got closer and cozier and warmer. Milo still told the grown-ups that they were being stupid when they were being stupid, but they needed to hear it.

It was nice.

It was good.

Svetlana squeezes Florence’s hand.

“Do you ever wish we were in a fairytale, Princess Florence?” Under the pub’s lights, her eyes have stars in them. Florence wants to kiss her.

“I became queen,” Florence reminds her, but she beams. “And you were queen. But, honestly, no. I love remembering our time there. I’m also really happy to be here. Anything can be a fairytale if you want it to be.”

“Mhm,” Svetlana agrees, and she tucks a curl behind Florence’s ear. She cups Florence’s face and gently kisses her.

Anatoly looks at Freddie. Freddie looks back.

“What? Don’t expect me to kiss you.”

“I didn’t,” Anatoly says. “Men don’t kiss in public.”

“Men don’t kiss in public,” Freddie agrees.

But they could hold hands in public, they’d decided, and their hands have now cooled down. They take each other’s hands and gently rest them on the table. It will probably be five minutes before they'll be unbearably hot again, but it's a start.

“Mama! Papa! Mom! Dad!”

The four of them turn. Milo and Anna are jaywalking, running across a street. It isn't crowded at this time of night, but Svetlana immediately stands up and frowns, pulling out the mama tone.

“Milo, Anna, don’t you do that again,” she sternly says and signs at the same time, but she softens up and embraces them. Milo and Anna are all giggles, embracing her back and then stealing two chairs from a neighboring table and pulling them up.

Anna had her debut on a West End show last month, playing the Deaf daughter of the protagonist. It takes much self-control for Freddie, Anatoly, Florence, and Svetlana to refrain from seeing the show nightly. The tickets are prohibitively expensive. Svetlana sees the show about four times a week, but she's trying to bring that down to a sensible two times a week (where Florence is currently at). Freddie and Anatoly see the show weekly.

And Milo has been hired as part of the wigs, hair, and makeup team in Anna’s show. They love designing wigs and won an award for their wig design a few months ago. They also told their parents that they didn’t want to be a girl. They also don't want to be a boy. They just want to be Milo-with-an-O. Milo-with-an-O is the best thing to be, Freddie, Svetlana, Florence, and Anatoly told them.

“I’m having a cocktail,” Milo announces. They’ve been insufferable ever since their birthday made them an adult. They grab the menu and start looking through it.

“And I want orange juice,” Anna signs, and Freddie flags down the waiter. Then he turns back to the kids.

“How was the show?” he asks. His signing is perfect. Anna and Milo both light up.

“Great. An understudy made his debut in the ensemble. One of the swings,” Anna explains, and Milo swiftly nods.

“Yeah. I had to put their wig together in, like, fifteen minutes. His costume was only about 80% ready. He did great, though.”

“So great!” Anna agrees.

The waiter brings Milo’s cocktail and Anna’s juice. They busy themselves with draining with glasses and talking to each other about how good the understudy did. Anatoly leans over to Svetlana.

“Can I talk to you?” he asks. “Just for a minute. Around the corner.”

She’s startled, but she nods. Florence looks curiously as they leave.

Across the table, Freddie smiles. He holds his hand out.

She smiles back and takes his hand. They have two friendship bracelets now: the ones Freddie made in Florence’s fairytale and the medical bracelets they decided to get.

“I’m glad I'm here,” Freddie says. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“You’ll always be my best friend,” Florence vows. “I’ve loved you in every universe. I’ll love you in every one to come. I swear I loved you even in your story. I’m sorry you couldn’t reach me in time.”

Freddie shakes his head.

“I know you loved me. I was in a bad place. It had nothing to do with you and everything to do with me.”

Florence squeezes his hand harder. It’s getting warm and sweaty. She doesn’t mind. She’ll hold on forever.

“Think of all the stories you didn’t jump in, Freddie.” She means every word. “Think of now. Look around you.”

And he does. He sees Milo and Anna deep in conversation and he sees Florence.

He sees love all around.

“Life’s fucking amazing.”

“It is,” Florence agrees.

Tucked in the corner around the pub, Anatoly pulls out a folder. He hands it to Svetlana. She frowns.

“What’s this?” she asks. In the darkness, his eyes seem remorseful and pathetic. She means that in the nicest way possible! He’s pathetic. 💛 That’s why they’d been so drawn to each other. That’s why she still loves him. That’s why she’ll always love him.

“Look at the papers,” he says. Then he pauses, getting all hesitant. “Sveta. I never apologized for the way I treated you in this story. In all of the stories, but especially in this one. I said I wasn’t sure if I ever loved you. I said you were irrelevant. I was so stupid. I don’t have an excuse. All I can say is that I was stupid and selfish.”

Svetlana looks up from the folder. She sees the sincerity in his expression. More than that, she can feel it. She thinks back to their days of youth, when they made snow angels on the ground and strolled along the park. She misses that. All of a sudden, she hugs him.

He hugs her back. Tight. They do love each other. They love each other in the right way now.

“Thank you for apologizing,” Svetlana says, and she says it with her heart. “It means a lot to me. I’m so glad I still get to share my life with you. With all of you.”

“I’m so lucky.” Anatoly lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He feels the tension leave his shoulders. “So, so lucky. And, well, I hope what’s in that folder makes up a tiny fraction for all the pain I caused you. I can’t ever make up for it, but…”

Svetlana pulls the papers out. She squints. Her eyesight is getting bad. She loves it. She loves aging. She loves knowing that time is passing. As she scans through the documents, her jaw drops. 😮 

“You did all of our taxes?” She turns to him incredulously. “Tolya, you figured out our taxes???”

“Well, I gave you such a hard time when we were in space,” he sheepishly says, “and Freddie still doesn’t understand a thing about taxes, so as I was doing them, I decided to do yours and Florence’s. I triple-checked every deduction. I promise I won’t land us in jail this time.”

Svetlana wordlessly glances over the numbers. They make sense. Oh, thank goodness. Anatoly finally rubbed his two brain cells together enough to not commit tax fraud. She couldn’t be happier.

“You did it,” she says.

“I did it,” he agrees. He hugs her, because one hug wasn't enough.

It's the best hug, even if it's making them both sweat.

They break apart and smile and head back to the table.

With Milo and Anna having finished their drinks and the pub closing up, they pay their tab and get out.

And as they walk towards Svetlana and Florence’s house (as Anatoly and Freddie always drop them off before heading to their flat), the six of them hold hands. Freddie doesn’t even mind how sweaty Anatoly and Milo’s hands are. They feel perfect.

It's time to go home.